


Dragon Age Reddit Prompts Year 2

by SerenityFalconNormandy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: A Murder of Crows (Quest), Aftermath of attempted assassination, Anderfels (Dragon Age), Arcane Warrior (Dragon Age), Baby Milestones, Bar Room Brawl, Bull is a softie, Cameos, Carver POV, Chantry Politics, Child Hawke, Codex Entry: Pets, Consensual Non-Monogamy, Content Warning: Rape/Sexual Abuse flashbacks, Corypheus - Freeform, Demonic Possession, Dragon Age Quest: A Bitter Pill, Dragon Age Quest: Bait and Switch, Dragon Age Quest: The Arl of Redcliffe, Dragon Age Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Dreamers (Dragon Age), F/M, Fade Graveyard, Fen is a good friend, Fenhawke Baby - Freeform, First Meetings, Future Plans, Grandpa Lavellan time, Illnesses, Jealous Anders, Knitting, Lyrium, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, POV Solas, Post-A Bitter Pill, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Pre-Broken Circle, Red Lyrium, Return to Lothering, Romantic Reunion, Search for a Cure, Sleepless night, Slow Dancing, Solas Being Solas, Solas Spoilers, Solas and the Anchor, Solavellan Babies, Stabby sewing, The Blight (Dragon Age), The Nightmare - Freeform, Training Montage, Varric's Letter to Hawke, Visiting Denerim, Well of Sorrows (Dragon Age), Wolves, conflicted feelings, papa fenris, solas is smooth af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-06-14 15:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 29,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityFalconNormandy/pseuds/SerenityFalconNormandy
Summary: A collection of one-shots written based on the Dragon Age Reddit's Weekly Writing Prompts thread. Slight AU/canon divergence for Alistair/Surana.Edited for grammar, content, and other annoyances with the help of the wonderful IncreasingLight.





	1. Into the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Before The Beginning of the Quest Chain From The Ashes: While on their way to meet their Warden Contact, Hawke stops by the Blighted remains of Lothering.
> 
> Marian Hawke visits the ruins of Lothering while on the trip to Crestwood.

Was it instinct or guilt that lead her to turn down the fork in the road? Marian wasn’t sure. Lost in her own thoughts, Marian let the mare the Inquisitor had given her, a mare uncreatively named Brandy for the color of her coat, take her own pace as they traversed the Hinterlands. Going north past the Orzammar gates would be shorter time-wise, however, Wardens were allowed to travel freely in and out of the dwarven city. If they were hunting Stroud as diligently as she suspected, they would be keeping an eye out for her as well. Plenty of his fellows knew that they had come into contact during her years in Kirkwall thanks to Varric’s damned book. She thanked the Maker once again that he’d left out that the Grey Wardens had actually stayed to help her get to the Gallows during the Qunari uprising. If it was known they were more than just passing acquaintances, the Wardens would have hunted her with the same single-minded determination that the Seeker and Sister Leliana had. 

 

Still, going the long way around Lake Calenhad meant she had too much time for introspection. When the fork came, Marian didn’t even notice when the mare turned up the branch that lead north instead of the one that continued northeasterly. The breeze whistled through trees bare of leaves, unusual for the time of year. The sheer discordance of the noise broke through her musing. Finally focusing on her surroundings, Marian took in the blackened, twisted trees. They weren’t dead, or they would have fallen over and rotted by now. The Blight kept them in a state of nightmarish stasis. She was crossing the path the horde had taken ten years prior. 

 

A prickle crossed her neck. Marian knew the shape of those hills. Clicking to Brandy, she spurred the horse from her leisurely walk to a brisk trot. The black ash and tan dust of the road kicked up under Brandy’s hooves. The wall of the ancient Imperial Highway came into view, Blightcreep darkening  the base. 

 

Lothering.

 

Home.

 

Or was it?

 

Maybe at one time, but anymore… It didn’t have Fenris, or Maureva. If the Blight hadn’t happened, if her life had gone according to her plan, she would have been Marian Hawke, wife of Hallwell the Smith. She wouldn’t have any children, because Hallwell had never known she was a mage, and she couldn’t risk losing a child of hers to the Circle, not after everything Father and Leandra had gone through to keep her and Bethany out. 

 

Riding through the ghosts of her past, she crossed the bridge that had brought the famed Hero of Ferelden to Lothering. She had played with Bethany and Carver in the mud of the stream it crossed over, catching frogs and splashing each other. It had been dammed up not long before the Blight. The empty ditch the refugees had made camp next to had muddy puddles of brackish ooze in them. _ It must have rained recently.  _

 

The Chantry was a sad, burnt-out husk amidst the shambles of the village. Brandy’s hooves made muffled clopping noises as she allowed herself to be guided over the rickety crossing for the rivulet that branched off the mighty Drakon and bisected the village. Marian supposed if the place weren’t riddled with Blightcreep and haunted to the high heavens, it would be a site almost as sacred as the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

 

Her humble little hometown was where King Alistair and Gwyneth Surana had begun their remarkable year-long battle against the Fifth Blight. The Chantry at her back was where they had bargained for the freedom of the Qunari Sten who was now the Arishok in Seheron. She spotted the charred remains of the Dane’s Refuge, where she had learned how to drink and win a proper bar fight with fists and words while hiding her magic. It was also where the King and Hero had found the Left Hand of the Divine when she was still a humble laysister.

 

Elder Miriam’s home had been razed, and it looked like the initial attempts at rebuilding had started, but been abandoned when the Blightcreep began to make its way up the framework of the new building. Leandra said Elder Miriam lived in Redcliffe way back when, could the old biddy still be alive? Marian wondered if she should have asked after her while passing through Redcliffe for provisions. 

 

She crossed the north field lines and squinted. The rivulet was low enough for her to ford across and check the old homestead. Butterflies filled her stomach. Would she find it a burnt-out, Blightcreep stained wreck? Did she really want to know? Tapping her heels to Brandy’s sides, Marian decided she did. As they splashed across, she could see through the dead trees to the clearing where the house stood. With a disbelieving laugh, she stood up in the stirrups for a better look. 

 

The outside had Blightcreep, yes, but it looked like whatever fires the darkspawn had set had smoldered and then gone out. All of Father’s precautions against accidental fires from two young mages learning their magic had paid off. The yard was empty, and it looked like the survivors who had come back to try rebuilding hadn’t even checked to see if the Hawke homestead had made it. Marian dropped out of the saddle and quickly hobbled the horse, attaching a feed bag to her nose to keep her occupied. 

 

A swift kick to the old, rotting door flung it open-  _ Thank you, Aveline, for lessons on proper door kicking technique- _ and Marian sucked in a breath. It was like walking into the past, if the past had a thick layer of dust on it. The basket of apples that had been knocked over in their haste to get out of the house was still overturned, the fruit withered to wrinkled lumps where they had fallen. Leandra’s basket of embroidery floss was next to the rocking chair where she spent many an hour embroidering odds and ends to sell at market, Bethany’s mending but an end table away, modest teacup and saucer still waiting for her sister to come back and finish tea evaporated to nothing years ago. 

 

Marian took an unsteady step forward, and her toe hit one of the packs Carver had dropped upon bursting in, declaring he was maybe an hour ahead of the horde and they needed to run  _ now. _ How she remembered the moment of shocked silence, then Carver shouting at them to move and shoving a mostly-empty satchel into her hands with a snarl to pack food and water. Movement had exploded, she, Bethany, and Carver racing about to shove the most precious and necessary things into satchels and packs, tucking important small items and remembrances into pockets while Leandra tried to tell them they couldn’t just leave everything. They had been lucky, very lucky, to be able to shove her out the front door and start running no less than twenty minutes before the horde swarmed Lothering.

 

Wandering into the back bedroom, tears filled her eyes. Father’s preservation spells had been used on important things like bacon and grain since money was tight and they had to be sure they could use every last speck, but sometimes he’d used them on less important things as well. Bethany’s doll, Lady Elaine, sat on the dusty bed, not a yarn hair out of place and not a single hint of dirt on her dress. Carver’s stuffed mabari, Ser Barkington, was on the low shelf next to his bed. Marian wouldn’t leave them here. She gathered up the doll and mabari toy, carrying them out to Brandy and carefully, so carefully, placing them in the bags on her withers. 

 

She squinted at the sky after mounting. Maybe… There was a small chance…

 

Brandy took off into a gallop through the dead forest, Marian leaning over her neck. It was out of the way, and would add time to her journey, but she was on a horse instead of running with two siblings, a dog, and her mother. Surely she could make better time and not get too far off the timetable. Much faster than she remembered, Brandy’s hooves found the red-clay path southeast through the deadwood, going up the rise past the old ruins of a fort from an Age long gone.  _ This clearing… I think this is it. Where is the cairn? _

 

Hidden in the shadows cast by taller rockpiles, Marian spotted the cairn. It was scorched black by the heat from a grieving sister’s Inferno and dragonfire. The stones had melted together in the heat, keeping what scavengers would brave the Blighted place from disturbing the two bodies protected by it. 

 

“Hey Bethy. Bet you thought you’d finally gotten rid of me, eh? And Ser Wesley, you must be shaking your head and groaning at the thought of the godless apostate still running around causing trouble.” Marian drew in a shaky breath and sat next to the cairn, “I was just passing through and thought I’d stop by for a social visit. Get both of you caught up on what’s been going on for the past ten years, you know? I have ever so much to tell you, Bethy, and Ser Wesley, I know you’ll be wanting to check up on Aveline. I’ve got an amazing story about copper marigolds...”


	2. The Outsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform Prompt
> 
> Nathaniel's view as he returns to court with Gwyneth Surana.

Nathaniel waited with barely restrained impatience while he and Gwyneth were welcomed back to court. He didn’t remember court welcomes being this tedious when he was young. Of course, he hadn’t been a Warden-Constable back then, or personal representative of the Bann of Amaranthine proper. He did remember how to hold his face completely neutral, not a single twitch to give away how bored he was by the official nonsense.

 

Gwyn had learned it in the Circle, hiding her true thoughts from Templars. His training had taken place at the side of a father who was never happy with his eldest son. Nathaniel spared a thought for Thomas, lost in the Blight, whom Rendon Howe had favored over him. After so many years, he didn’t think of him as Papa anymore.

 

The Bannorn was gathered to see their heroine return, gossips whispering to each other as she approached the king for a welcoming kiss on the cheek, then the queen for the same. The nattering hens and what was left of Anora’s supporters were searching for any sign that there was more than professional affection between Alistair and Gwyn, not that they would ever see it. Both of them had taken Elissa’s coaching to heart, and their leadership presented a united front. King, queen, and Chancellor were the image of harmony, working together to restore a kingdom that was still struggling four years after Urthemiel’s death.

 

Yet, even working with them as he had, because he carried the burden of the name Howe, whispers followed him, too. Son of a traitor, child of a monster. The specter of Highever followed him in their eyes no matter what he did. Thankfully, Elissa, the one who had the most reason to hate him, just… didn’t. Fergus was polite, but withdrawn, which was understandable, but Elissa would welcome him with smiles, the traditional kiss on the cheek, and real pleasure in her voice.

 

That’s how everything had started. The tiny little moments between two people who had grown up together and still remained friendly despite the pain Rendon had inflicted on both of them had grown to quiet admiration of each other, then affection. Nathaniel had admitted that at first he had been indignant about Alistair keeping Gwyn as his mistress while marrying Elissa to secure the throne. When Elissa had explained that she was okay with it, and even encouraged it, a spark of hope had lit.

 

It wasn’t until he had that reassurance that they had given in to the temptation of each other. Gwyneth had figured it out immediately, and had been happy for them. Alistair had taken him aside and told him if Elissa ever came to him crying because Nathaniel had made her unhappy, he was in for a royal thrashing. For once, the jovial king hadn’t been making a pun, no trace of humor to be found on his face.

 

“Warden-Constable Nathaniel, you are welcome at court.” Alistair’s greeting pulled him from his mental wanderings. Striding up to the dais, Nathaniel bowed to his king.

 

“Your Majesty, always a pleasure.” Turning to Elissa, he took the hand she offered, bowing over it and placing a kiss on her signet ring, as protocol dictated “Your Majesty, you look well.”

 

“Thank you, Warden-Constable.” Elissa gave him a warm, welcoming smile. “Our daughter is finally sleeping through the night in her nursery, which most certainly helps.”

 

Giving her a private wink, Nathaniel straightened. “It’s been a long trip with the Lady Chancellor. If I may retire, Your Majesties?”

 

“Of course. You’re in the same rooms as usual.” Elissa’s eyes sparkled, their bright sky blue locking with his storm grey. Most likely, Elissa would be running through the warren of passages that ran through the walls of the royal wing to greet him after ‘retiring’ for the evening.

 

The crowd parted before him as he stepped down from the dais. Official welcomes done, Alistair and Elissa remained standing on the platform, already deep in discussion with Gwyneth. Nathaniel strode forward, ignoring the avaricious looks, suspicion, and sneers. He knew he was an outsider amongst them. He hadn’t fought Gwyneth for Amaranthine or demanded she name him Bann. He hadn’t taken his sister to task for marrying beneath herself. If anyone bothered to ask his opinion, he would tell them that Albert was a good man, better than Rendon Howe had been, no matter that he was a shopkeep.

 

Passing one group of noble ladies, one spoke loudly, purposely, so he would hear, “I hear that Fergus Cousland is welcoming his new bride to Highever next month. Caterina of Rialto. I understand he was very reluctant to wed again, doubly so to an Antivan, after what happened to poor Lady Oriana. Such a tragedy. Don’t you agree, Warden-Constable _Howe?”_

 

Nathaniel stopped abruptly, an island of silence forming around them. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Lady Jolene. “What happened at Highever was a tragedy, madam. My father was a monster, and I will be the first to admit it. I am not him, and I wish I had been in Ferelden to stop his and the Traitor’s madness. Remind me, Lady Jolene, wasn’t your father’s army with the Traitor during Ostagar? Should we judge you a traitor as well?”

 

Leaving Lady Jolene looking like she had swallowed a slug, he marched out of the hall. He would not let it get to him. He was right where he belonged, helping Ferelden as Warden-Constable, and helping Elissa as close friend and lover.

 

He was no outsider.

  
  



	3. Fearlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: After Adamant, the Inquisitor dreams differently.
> 
> The nightmares found in Adamant Fortress have followed Fen'lath back to Skyhold, and Solas is determined that they will not trouble her anymore.

_ The Nightmare loomed over her, voice rumbling and booming like thunder. Fen’lath couldn’t understand it as she ran in a panic. The graveyard suddenly appeared before her, the headstones standing taller than the battlements of Skyhold. A gigantic spider leg stabbed through the Fadescape in front of her and she dodged around it.  _

 

_ The first headstone cracked, and started to fall, threatening to flatten her if she couldn’t get out of the way. The giant etching of DESPAIR was rushing towards her, and she just managed to dart around it, hearing the mournful howl of a despair demon as it shattered on impact. TEMPTATION rose over her on a collision course with MADNESS, and the deafening sound of the two crashing into each other drowned out the laughter of the Nightmare for only a moment. A desire demon that resembled Dorian wrapped itself around a raging Iron Bull, laughing and whispering in his ear as they watched her pass. Bull reached for her with a roar, and only a quick dodge and the swiftness of her flight saved her from being torn asunder.  _

 

_ IRRELEVANCE, NOTHING, and HIMSELF headstones boxed her in, the shadow of the demon fell over her as she screamed “Help me! Someone!” _

 

_ Desperate, Fen launched a Stonefist and toppled IRRELEVANCE, which let out an outraged wail. A formless mass tried to entangle her while a red lyrium facsimile of Blackwall charged her, shield up and sword swinging. The Anchor pulsed, pulling them both away. Racing past BECOMING HIS PARENTS and HELPLESSNESS, Fen leaped over the bent and broken forms of Varric and Cassandra. They were so close to each other, but not even noticing the other as one lost himself in a bottle and the other was weighed down with chains.  _

 

_ She skidded to a halt, a sob tearing from her throat when she spotted Solas leaning against DYING ALONE. His gorgeous stormcloud eyes were hazed over in death, and long, slim fingers were reaching for her. Fen fell to her knees next to him, crying out, “No, no! Solas, vhenan!” _

 

_ “You destroy everything you touch.” The Nightmare’s voice rumbled over her. She looked up and watched the words on the tombstone morph from DYING ALONE to FAILURE. “You will fail, and their deaths will be your fault, just like Stroud’s was.” _

 

_ Fen screamed, hunching over Solas’s corpse in the vain hope of protecting it from being crushed as the headstone tipped over and began to fall. “Vhenan! Wake up!” _

* * *

 

“ _ Vhenan _ .  _ Ma’theneras. _ ” Solas’s voice broke through as Fen’lath flailed in the sweat-soaked sheets. “I am here,  _ vhenan _ . It was a nightmare, only a nightmare. You are safe.”

 

Her shaking fingers twined themselves in the leather strip that held his jawbone amulet. She attempted to speak, but all that came out was a broken sob. He gathered her close, tilting her head into his neck and rubbing her shoulder and back with his free hand. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and traced across the bare skin of his collarbone. Finally, she rasped out, “I don’t dream of anything else anymore. Ever since Adamant. I used to dream of so many things, but now every night, it’s that same bloody, blighted nightmare.”

 

Solas closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face as he pressed his cheek to her temple. “Five weeks of this,  _ vhenan.  _ I fear the stress of preparing for our trip to the Winter Palace has not been helping.”

 

“No, it hasn’t. If I fail-”

 

“You will not fail, Fen. You have a quick mind, and you already sent out messengers to gather the leaders of the elves in Orlais to meet us on the road to Halamshiral. You chose your course of action. With the People behind you, and the skill of those of us who have pledged ourselves to you, there is no way you will fail.”

 

“I wish I had your confidence.” To his relief, she wasn’t crying anymore. Her breath was warm, fluttering across his chest, and her fingers had untangled from his amulet to spread out over his heart. 

 

“Well, shall we talk about what troubles you? Perhaps it will help ease your mind some.”

 

“I’m afraid I’ll present my case for keeping Celene as empress, as much as I loathe her, and they will still ask me to throw my support behind Gaspard, even though I loathe him more.” Her voice hardened. “I heard rumors that he asked to hunt us Dalish three times and was sent after darkspawn instead. There are representatives from clans there who will be able to attest that he didn’t always ask every time he wanted to hunt us like animals.” 

 

Solas was silent for a moment, mulling over what he knew before speaking carefully. “I trust that you know how to present what you have from Sister Leliana, Lady Montilyet, and your own careful inquiries. Halamshiral was a terrible thing, yes. Gaspard and his ilk have been a slow destruction for the People in Orlais, death by a thousand cuts. One elf here, a half dozen there the next week. I am sure you can help them see your reasoning and they will agree with you.”

 

“Thank you.” It was a quiet whisper against his throat. 

 

He fought the urge to stalk through the Fade and find Deshanna to shake her for making not supporting Fen’lath enough when she was younger, that she still questioned her decision making abilities so harshly now, even with reassurance from many sources. 

 

“I think you should try sleeping again,  _ vhenan _ .” Solas quieted her protest with a gentle movement of his hand on her back. “With your permission, I will join you in your nightmare if it starts again and do what I can to assist. I hope you will say yes this time.”

 

“Is it like the dreams you create for me?”

 

“Hmm. The process is similar, but I am entering your dreams, instead of bringing your consciousness into mine after I have shaped them. I believe I can assist, though.”

 

The tremor that ran through her made anger boil under his skin. A silver flash reflecting off the goblet on her side table signalled that his power was rebuilding itself. He must be careful, but he could use it to his advantage in this case. 

 

“You won’t leave me alone in the nightmare?”

 

“I will join you as soon as I observe it starting.” 

 

Fen burrowed into his neck and chest. “Yes.”

 

With a nod, Solas pulled back and ran his fingers down her face, brushing finger pads over her eyelids and easing her into sleep. Tucking her firmly back into place against his side, he slid across the Veil himself in the half-sleep needed when he was going to interact with another person’s dreams. In the bubble of Fadescape that Fen’lath occupied it was quiet. She had not yet started to dream, and in his sight, she appeared to be sleeping on her side on a cushion of green mist. His growl echoed across the Fade when he spotted the writhing mass of Fearlings skittering around the edge of the bubble. 

 

They must have followed the survivors of Adamant, and were drawn to the Anchor since it had called them while Fen had been in the Fade physically. They were the reason she was being tortured nightly by the recurring nightmare. Taking on the form of Fen’Harel, he dove into the mass, sending the spider-like creatures scattering. Shrieks and wails rent the air as they fled. Solas snarled when the two largest Fearlings broke into Fen’lath’s bubble, starting the nightmare anew for her. They joined to take the form of the Nightmare demon. He would join Fen and help her slay the Fearlings, and that would serve as warning to keep the rest far away from her. The Dread Wolf’s Dalish Wolf was off-limits.

* * *

 

_ The Nightmare loomed over her, voice rumbling and booming like thunder. Fen’lath couldn’t understand it as she ran in a panic. The graveyard suddenly appeared before her, the headstones standing taller than the battlements of Skyhold. A gigantic spider leg stabbed through the Fadescape in front of her and she dodged around it.  _

 

_ “Vhenan.” Solas appeared before her, clothed in armor she had only seen in ancient inscriptions. “This is a nightmare brought about by Fearlings that followed you from Adamant. We are going to kill them.” _

 

_ Fen’lath skidded to a stop. She… remembered. “What do we do?” _

 

_ The dream twisted around her, and Fen looked down. Silver and bronze armor molded to her body, with a black wolf pelt edging the neck and shoulders. Tyrdda’s staff formed in her hands as Solas hefted a staff that she knew, somehow, was called Heart of Pride. He smiled at her, sharp and feral. “What do we do, vhenan? We hunt.” _

  
  



	4. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fenris after the Act 2 quest A Bitter Pill- His perspective on the events, and dealing with Hadriana. (Also- if he romanced Hawke, his thoughts while Hawke sleeps, before they wake up.)
> 
> The thoughts and feelings Fenris has, and his flashbacks while waiting for Marian to wake up. 
> 
> (CW: Flashbacks related to rape and sexual abuse. I've bumped up the rating on this fic due to this.)

Forget about magic, was there anything he touched that he didn’t spoil?

 

Huddled against the wall next to the fireplace, Fenris watched Marian sleep, relaxed in a way he had never seen before. He didn’t understand how she could just… trust him. Not when he’d broken his word to Hadriana not even a full day before, and then cursed all mages along with the bitch. The way Marian had flinched when he said that… 

 

Even still, she let him into her home, her bed, her heart. Him. A broken, soiled runaway slave who let his temper get the best of him far too often. Being with Marian was a gift. He knew that., and she touched him with a tenderness and care he’d never experienced before. There was no pain from his markings.

 

Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her bedchamber, he could not escape his past, and what Danarius had done to him. As the ghosts of Marian’s touch drifted over his skin, the phantom of the Tevinter magister reared his ugly head and hissed in his ear. The two of them battled in his mind.

 

_ My little Fenris… don’t resist… if you fight it will only hurt more. _

 

**_Don’t worry, Fenris, you didn’t hurt me. Take your time._ **

 

_ Don’t struggle… hold still… you’ll enjoy it, my pet… _

 

**_Is this okay? Do you like this?_ **

 

_ You can’t say no to me, I am your master! _

 

**_If we do anything you don’t like, just say stop and we will._ **

 

_ It would be so much better if you stopped fighting, my little wolf. _

 

**_May I touch you here? Do I need to stop?_ **

 

_ You’ll come to enjoy my attention in time…  _

 

Shoulders hunched, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to hold off the terrible memories that were overwhelming the good.  _ Ripping, tearing pain. Burning as the markings were deliberately gripped too tightly. Lashes infused with magic so they didn’t mar his skin, but lit his nerves as though gaatlok was being ignited on them. _ Toes curled inwards as he remembered Hadriana laughing and holding him down, allowing Danarius to use a cane on the soles of his feet until they bled.

 

Marian murmured and rolled over in her sleep, the noise breaking through for a moment before the flashbacks overtook him again. 

 

_ “Leto! Varania! Supper is ready!” An older elven woman with red hair and olive green eyes wiped her hands on a threadbare rag hanging from her waist. The other elf child, a smaller copy of their mother, was all gangly limbs in a loose, patched shift.  _

 

_ “Come on, Leto, it’ll get cold!” _

 

_ “Leto…” _

 

_ “Leto…” _

 

_ “Leto, please don’t do this. You don’t know what Master Danarius has planned, it’s not worth it.” _

 

_ “I have to, Mother. For you and Varania.” _

 

_ “I’m begging you. Please, Leto.” _

 

_ “Leto…” _

 

_ “Leto…” _

 

_ “Leto?” _

 

_ “My name is Fenris, woman. Move aside, the master is coming through.” _

 

Fenris scrambled madly, trying to hold onto the memories of the woman and the girl, the name that they called him. It lingered on the edges of his mind, hung on the tip of his tongue, and he wanted to say it and write it down so it wouldn’t be lost. Then, like dew in the heat of the morning sun, it was gone. 

 

In the bed, Marian rolled over, gripping the pillow where he should have been to her chest. 

 

The urge to scream was strong. It had been there. His past, memories from before the cursed markings were carved into him, just beyond reach. Why were the bitter memories of his torment at the hands of Danarius and Hadriana so easily at hand, while the ones he longed for the most were phantoms to haunt him? Would this night with Marian join them?

 

He dropped his head in his hands. Silent, frustrated sobs racked his shoulders. He could not burden Marian with this. She held herself responsible for too much already. The most amazing woman he’d ever known deserved to be with someone who wasn’t a broken mess. Someone who insulted her carelessly at every turn. He should have known that this night was too good for him, that it was just a dream for him to hold onto for an hour, maybe two.

 

Chest aching, Fenris slowly pulled on his armor. He wouldn’t leave until Marian was awake. Leaving without any explanation would be cruel. The belt he had unwound from her earlier that night was a scarlet splash across the floor. A ragged ribbon was torn off the edge, hanging. It looked very much like his heart felt. Fenris picked up the belt, and carefully pulled the fabric, tearing it along the weft. Mending it would be easier, and he would have something of Marian’s to keep for himself. There was nothing else of hers he was worthy of claiming. 

 

She rolled over again, the fire casting warm light and shadows over her. Marian was so beautiful, no matter what she thought.

 

The abomination would rejoice, and redouble his efforts to worm his way into Marian’s affections. Fenris made a face, then dropped his head. He had no right to stop her from seeking comfort in the mage’s arms if she chose to. All he could do is hope the other man made her happy, and rip his heart out if he did anything to hurt her.

 

He wound the thin strip of red around his gauntlet, and he tied the knot tight and secure, using his teeth to ensure it would not come loose. It would be all he had of her, but he would keep it safe. He would keep  _ her  _ safe, for as long as he had breath in him. He turned to the fireplace, leaning his head on the mantle and praying for something, he wasn’t quite sure what.

 

“Was it that bad?” Marian meant for it to sound joking, but there was a tone of hurt underlying it. 

 

_ Marian, forgive me for what I’m about to do. _

  
  



	5. Bait and Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Carver/Bethany POV during the recruitments of other companions.
> 
> Carver's view of the quest Bait and Switch

He didn’t like it, not one bit. His sister might fancy traipsing blindly into the alienage late at night after Anso’s property, but it stank of a trap to him. Carver would never say so out loud, but he was glad Marian had the sense to have him come along, and the dwarf. If Aveline wasn’t on patrol, they would have her along instead of the mage who was ogling his sister like a starving man sighting a fresh loaf of bread, and he’d much rather the other Fereldan warrior be along with them.

 

Marian had flirted with him some when they first met Anders. Carver didn’t understand the appeal. In his opinion, the Grey Warden mage looked like an anemic rat in a tatty feathered cloak who wouldn’t shut up about how awful being a mage was. Anders was neglecting the rest of their party in favor of Marian’s safety, to boot. 

 

His jaw creaked as he clenched it when Marian opened the chest in the house, and it was empty. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and not because she was holding a ball of lightning just on the edge of the Veil. They weren’t going to get paid for this job, blast it, and it definitely had to be a trap.

 

As they stepped out into the alienage square, a man in nondescript armor and an idiotic looking haircut snarled at Marian, “I don’t know who you are,  _ friend _ , but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here.”

 

Carver groaned internally when Marian just crossed her arms and jutted out a hip. She was probably doing that infuriating ‘Really?’ eyebrow raise of hers. The one with the smirk that said, ‘Oh, how adorable, you think you intimidate me. That’s so cute!’ It had started more than a few of their fistfights as children, and a fair share of bar brawls back in Lothering. 

 

The man sneered, “Lieutenant, I want everyone in the clearing, now!”

 

Lifting his shield and stepping forward in front of his sister, Carver mentally prepared for a flood of soldiers to come rushing into the square. Instead, one lone figure stumbled out of the shadows. His Tevinter armor-  _ bloody Vints! _ \- was splashed liberally with blood, and it was running freely from a wound somewhere on his body. 

 

“Cap--tain…” He dropped to the ground. Carver had seen that kind of flop often enough to know the man was dead before he even hit the ground.

 

“Your men are dead. And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you still can.” A tanned elf with a shock of snowy white hair and remarkable armor that Carver was instantly jealous of followed the dead man from the alleyway. His appearance certainly didn’t match his voice. 

 

“Sweet Maker have  _ mercy _ .” 

  
Carver shot a glare over his shoulder. Marian had a stunned look on her face.  _ Great, another one to get her knickers in a twist. _ He turned back with a grimace, just in time to watch the elf turn into a pillar of crackling blue energy and  _ plunge his hand into the slaver’s bloody chest _ . There was a pop-crack-squelch, and the slaver joined his man on the ground. 

 

_ Bloody blighted Void, he’d just crushed the man’s heart like an overripe fruit. _

 

“I am not a slave!” The elf snarled, and then spat on the corpse. “I apologize. When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the Hunters, I never imagined they’d be so… numerous.”

 

“A distraction? You were responsible for this?”

 

_ Oh, bloody Void, she’s using the breathy voice. _ Behind him, Carver could hear Anders growling under his breath like a mabari whose favorite toy had been spotted by another dog. He edged himself a little closer to the blonde mage as Marian spoke with the elf, Fenris. When the mage took a step forward like he wanted to grab her and pull her away from Elfy, Carver thrust his arm across his chest and shook his head. Anders opened his mouth to object, then backed down when Carver hefted his sword. If he wanted to start trouble, the pommel of a sword to the back of the head should be enough to knock sense into anyone, even a bloody abomination. The fact that Carver had at least four inches of height and a fair bit of muscle on him helped, too. 

 

The runaway slave needed help confronting his master in a mansion in Hightown. Carver felt wicked grin of glee cross his face at the thought of confronting another slaving Vint. Malcolm Hawke had been raised in the Gallows, and many of his instructors and friends had been elves. He’d raised his children to treat them as well as any other person. After hearing about what the Traitor Loghain had done in Denerim, having the chance to rid the world of another Vint slave master was an opportunity too good to pass up. 

 

Unless you were Anders, apparently.

 

“Are you sure about this, Hawke? He doesn’t seem… quite all there,” he asked as they clambered up the steps to Hightown.

 

“As sure as I am of anything, Anders,” she shot back. “Besides, we’re talking a man’s freedom from slavery. I’d think you’d be a bit more sympathetic.”

 

Anders huffed. Varric let out a snorting laugh, and Carver allowed himself a smug grin as he helped Marian pick herself up after she tripped on the edge of one of the steps and went sprawling. She appeared to have missed that Anders was more concerned about competition for her attention than anything else. His sister had no idea how many eyes she attracted on a regular basis thanks to their mother’s constant harping on her appearance. Even back in Lothering, Carver had thrashed more of the town’s farm hands than he could remember for making lewd comments about her that he’d overheard. 

 

The mansion was a mess of demons and shades, and lacking in magisters. After going to the trouble of helping him clear out the manse, Fenris had the gall to get pissy with Marian for being a mage. She had been careful, as she always was, using her halberd and only used a single Mind Blast when they had been close to being overrun. She took it about as seriously as she took everything, which meant not at all, so he had to step in.

 

“If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me.”

 

The elf and Marian were of a height, maybe five inches shorter than him, and even though Fenris could swing his broadsword like it was a twig, Carver’s wide-shouldered bulk made him back down a bit. Things settled, and Maker’s miracle, the elf actually gave them some coin. He would have given them all of his coin, but Marian insisted on giving half back. As their group headed back to Lowtown sans elf, who said he was going to search the mansion for anything of use, Varric nudged him in the ribs.

 

“How long before Broody and Blondie start trying to stake their claim on your sister, Junior? I lay a round at the Hanged Man on a month.”

 

Carver glanced ahead at Marian, who was very pointedly gripping her halberd and keeping it swinging between her and Anders so he couldn’t try to put his arm around her or hold her hand as he’d done a few times over the previous week. He grunted to the dwarf, “Same, but I say it doesn’t even take a week. If one of them tries to mark their territory, I’m hacking their bits off, though. The two of them will be like a pair of bloody mabari over a bone, I swear.”

 

Varric roared with laughter as Marian and Anders looked back over their shoulders in confusion. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the description of Anders as an anemic rat in a Dragon Age confession once years ago, and it so perfectly encapsulated why I'm not attracted to him that I've never been able to forget it.


	6. Momentary Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Solas POV on the first few days of The Breach- the demons, the explosion, studying the mark.
> 
> Solas ponders the woman with the Anchor in her hand, and what can be done to seal the rifts.

Her hand was fine-boned, the back littered with small scars earned through life lessons and hard work. The fingers and palm were callused from using a staff, which he found an odd comfort. At the very least, the shadow bearing the Anchor in her palm was a mage, closer to The People as they had been than most of these living ghosts were. Carefully, Solas plucked at the Anchor, attempting to free it from the unconscious elven woman. She let out a harsh whimper of pain. He gritted his teeth at the blowback from the destabilized mark. 

 

_ What unholy thing did that Blighted magister do before blowing himself up? _

 

To take the Anchor from her right now, he would have to murder her, it was so deeply rooted and entwined in her being. Even worse, he could not even guarantee that he would be able to take it into himself because it was so unstable. Gently, he trickled a stream of healing along the roots of the Anchor, fixing some of the damage it had done to the fragile shell it was inhabiting for the time being. He could feel the Breach pulse outside, an echoing pulse coming from her hand and tearing the Anchor wider. 

 

The cry that tore from her lips was one of disturbingly real agony. Solas pressed his lips together, reminding himself that he had to focus on keeping her alive if he was to have any hope of recovering the Anchor. More healing energies poured into her, and when he felt the balance was right, began carefully weaving the Fade into the Anchor to stabilize it. He pulled the thin threads tight around ragged edges, closing the tears and shoring up the edges so further pulses would be less likely to cause damage. As long as he was allowed access to the elven woman, he could maintain the stability and dig the roots of the Anchor out of her in hopes of preserving her life and removing it as painlessly as possible. Shadow or not, it would be cruel to purposely inflict pain on a sentient creature. 

 

The dirty cell floor was uncomfortable on his knees, and the chill cut through his leggings and warming enchantments far too quickly. Standing up, Solas rubbed his hands together and brushed the floor grit from his knees. He stretched, and took a swig of water from his provided canteen before preparing to hunker down and start working on the Anchor again. 

 

“Oi, knife-ear, you done wiv 'er?” The guard threw open the basement door with a rattle. “Seeker Pentaghast wants you ta help wiv the rifts again, since you know so much.” 

 

Maintaining his air of detached calm, Solas replied, “Certainly. Please notify me if she wakes.”

 

The human grunted, malice sparkling in his eyes as they lit on the unconscious woman on the thin straw pallet in the cell. 

 

“I will take that as an affirmative.”

 

He squeezed past the guard to go up the stairs and proceed through the Chantry, taking his staff from where he had left it, just inside the doorway. Shading his eyes from the sun, Solas looked up. In the day since the Breach had opened, the jagged tear in the sky had only grown wider. The time in between pulses grew shorter, and more rifts were forming more often. The forces in Haven were starting to spread thin already, going from rift to rift to clear out the demons emerging from them before proceeding to the rest. The soldiers’ shift rotations were kept tight and strict so that every man and woman had a chance to rest and be refreshed to face the constant onslaught, but they wouldn’t be able to hold for much longer. A few days, at most. 

 

Adan, the alchemist, had already been pressed into medical duty to deal with the increased amount of injured soldiers. Solas stopped on his way out of Haven to heal a few soldiers who had minor gashes from demon claws. They would be able to return to their regular shifts in the rotation, and it might help hold back the tide for a few more hours. 

 

Solas winced as the Breach tore open another rift, and it belched demons out. 

 

_ I’m so sorry, my friends. _

 

The poor spirits. So many of them were being sucked unawares out of the Fade and thrown into the waking world, turned not because they wanted to be there, but because they were in the wrong place when a rift opened and it was too much for them.

 

When he got his orb and the Anchor, he would make it right. He had to believe he would be able to do that. Snow crunched under his wrapped feet as he made his way out to the rift he considered ‘his’ rift. It was one of the first to have opened, and the one he had studied from the time Lady Seeker Pentaghast had dragged him to it. The blast from the Breach had knocked him off his feet and into a snowbank, and after he’d pulled himself out, he had presented himself to her immediately.

 

His rift had only spawned a few weak Fear demons, which he was able to dispatch quickly on his own. While he might not have the full breadth of his magic available, he was strong enough to free them to return to the Fade and become spirits of Courage once again. One problem solved, he turned to the main one.

 

Magically, he tested the edges, seeing if he could weave them together, like a spider with a web, and pull the web tight to seal it off. All it did was absorb the magical strands, and the rift flexed as if it would spew more demons out. His brow wrinkled as he pondered. This time, he tried to form a cap of sorts, to seal it off as the Children of the Stone did with darkspawn entrances. 

 

It was like trying to dam a torrent by throwing a handful of twigs in. A growl of frustration rose in his throat. The rift spat out another Fear demon, and a few daggers of ice sent it on its way. With a testing probe of magic, Solas confirmed that the rift had loosed all the demons it was likely to for at least a few hours. 

 

Breaking into a brisk jog, he moved on to the next in the loop of rifts he and the dwarf, Varric, were tasked with keeping clear of demons for the time being. It was the dwarf’s mealtime break, judging by the angle of the sun. His own stomach growled, reminding him he had neglected to take any nourishment for himself when he had the chance, instead studying the Anchor, and the woman who was its vessel.

 

She was short, as the shadows of The People were, and slender, but more muscular and showed signs of a better diet than their city-based brethren. He had washed out her thick black hair the night before, as it had been caked with mud and other substances that he didn’t want to think about after her fall from the opening in the Fade. 

  
Something in her face was familiar, the angle of the slope of her nose, or maybe it was the the shapeliness of her mouth. She was not unpleasant to look at, though a bit plain in his mind. Her forehead a touch too broad and her chin could be called weak viewed from certain angles. His mind touched on, then skipped over the  _ vallaslin  _ of Mythal that marred her high cheekbones with their purple scars. The pride of unwitting slavery carried so plainly on her face made him feel ill when he thought on it too long. 

 

Still, she was more than the other shadows he had met. None of the others had come to the Conclave, or taken an interest in what would happen there, though it would have shaped their world and their future. It was sad that her curiosity would end up being the death of her if he could not remove the Anchor from her palm. 

 

Swinging his staff around, Solas whipped shards of ice towards the Terror demon that was springing for him from the next rift on his route. His duty at the moment was to dispatch the demons and figure out how to remove the Anchor later. 

 

For the sake of The People, he could not afford any distractions. 


	7. Entanglements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: They were used to being good at anything they got their hands on, but this stumped them entirely.
> 
> It's just knitting, so Iron Bull thinks it should be easy. Right?

Bull grunted, pulling on the wool yarn and trying to loop it around the tiny needles in his hands. Squinting his good eye, he muttered, “How does Boss do this all night?”

 

He had watched Fen’lath knit every night in camp, making sweaters, scarves, socks, and hats for her team as they headed for the Emprise. Solas could put on every piece she’d made him and would be completely unable to move, but would be warm. 

 

Dorian spent every night plastered to Bull’s side, shivering and sticking icy-cold feet on his shins, and he wanted to do something to help his  _ kadan. _ So, he had watched Fen for the past few days, figuring out how knitting worked, and snagged himself a skein of nice peacock green wool and a pair of needles. As it turned out, observational skills could only teach him so much. The yarn kept tangling around his fingers, refused to loop around the needles, and when it finally did, it wouldn’t slide gracefully into the little woven knots that flew off Fen’s needles.

 

Then there were the needles. Bull had gotten wooden ones first, only to have them splinter and break the first time he clutched them to pull the yarn tight. After undoing all the loops and obtaining a pair of metal needles, things had gone better, but they were decidedly… crumpled. His fingers had already crushed dimples into them, and one was bent from trying to examine the loops of the sad-looking scarf slowly emerging from his efforts. 

 

“Yarn crap, needle crap, demon-possessed knitting crap…” He grumbled as a stitch dropped off the needle instead of sliding over the yarn he’d finally gotten into place. Bull practically draped the scarf across his nose as he delicately maneuvered the needle around to pick the loop back up, leaving a pulled spot in the chains and rows. “He better appreciate the things I do for him.”

 

“What in the world are you doing, Bull?” He flinched, realizing he hadn’t heard Fen walking up on him, her patrol around the camp perimeter finished. “Are you… knitting?”

 

“Trying to, Boss.”

 

She sat down next to him and looked over his handiwork. “Dare I ask?”

 

“I’d be much happier if you didn’t.” Bull was thankful for his Ben’Hassrath training, or his cheeks would be darkening with embarrassment. 

 

Fen just raised an amused eyebrow and tilted her head inquisitively.

 

Attempting to ignore her, he went back to struggling with the yarn and needles. His audience had her chin propped on a casual fist, the flickering firelight casting shadows across her face. Another stitch dropped, and this time he wasn’t able to catch it before the chain reaction left a laddered hole down the scarf. Bull snorted out of his nose in frustration, restraining himself from throwing the whole thing into the fire, needles and all. 

 

“I can fix that, if you want.”

 

“Mmrrh.” 

 

“Fine, but remember I offered.”

 

Bull struggled with the scarf for another hour before admitting defeat and throwing it in his rucksack. Grumpy, he roused Blackwall and Sera for their watch shift, and picked a snoring Fen up from her spot next to the fire. Solas stirred just long enough to help get her into their tent and tucked into the bedroll next to him before he was back in his Dreamer Fade crap. 

 

Flopping down next to Dorian, who immediately attached himself to Bull’s side like a limpet, Bull allowed himself to pout a little. He was used to being good at everything he tried, thanks to his training and memory, but a ball of yarn and two metal sticks completely stumped him. Curling up on his side and letting Dorian be big spoon, he let out a huff and drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

As they were making camp three days later, a scout came thundering in from the Exalted Plains with a package for Fen’lath. She let out a delighted squeal and tore it open, running her fingers over skeins and skeins of halla wool yarn. Bull felt a grin crinkle the corner of his eye as Sera ran over to see, her disgust with all things ‘elfy’ overridden by the chance to get a skein of yarn for herself to do some ‘stabby sewing’.

 

Once the spoils were divided, Sera ran off with two skeins of bright orange and yellow yarn for a new sweater, while Fen squirrelled the rest away in her packs and tent. He turned his attention back to sharpening his axe, checking the edge in the fading light when he felt Fen walking up behind him, “You know that was just a one-off incident, Boss.”

 

“A girl can dream, Bull,” she laughed and hunkered down next to him. She had a flat, wrapped box in her hands, and handed it to him. “Happy Nameday.”

 

He gave her a sidelong glance, “I don’t know my nameday. The Tamassrans don’t tell us because it’s not important information.”

 

“Well, I’m making today your Nameday, then. Just open it, stubborn lunkhead.”

 

Undoing the twine and tearing away the plain paper, he opened the box like it was full of gaatlok. His jaw dropped when he saw the thick, heavy-duty knitting needles sized for his hands, and the heavier weighted yarn in the same peacock green he’d been attempting to knit with. 

 

“Surprised?”

 

“What was the first sign?”

 

“The look on your face, really.”

 

“Ha ha, Boss. How did you get this?” He lifted out the yarn, running his fingers over it. The soft wool caught on the rough texture of his skin. Even just resting in his hand, he could feel how well it held warmth. Dorian would love it.

 

“I sent a raven to Keeper Hawen after I saw how much trouble you were having with Dalish-sized needles and yarn weight. His spinners are very good, and those needles are ironbark. You could probably quite literally kill someone with them if you needed to, and they wouldn’t even get scratched. Start looping, and I’ll get my knitting so I can show you how to do this properly.”

 

Bull felt his eye water. Damn it all to the Void, Fen was a good friend, and his  _ kadan  _ would have something from him to wear. Granted, given the size of the needles, even with the heavier weight of the wool, it would probably look like his scarf was made of chains looped together… Dorian would still wear it with pride, if it went as he wanted. Hopefully, it would soften him up enough to accept the dragon tooth Bull was carving when the time came. 

 


	8. Decisions to Be Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I am making my choice here and now, and I will not be swayed. Do what you must."
> 
> Alistair watches as Gwyneth decides to go to Kinloch Hold in the hopes of saving Connor Guerrin.

As soon as Jowan left to tend Connor and Arlessa Isolde, Gwyneth turned to their companions. “I must go to Kinloch Hold, the Circle of Magi. They will be able to help us.”

 

Alistair flinched internally when Morrigan and Sten began arguing immediately. The witch was content to just slay anyone in the way while Leliana just looked appalled. The Qunari was so focused on getting to the Archdemon yesterday that he wasn’t thinking of the practicalities that Fereldan politics demanded.

 

“‘Tis a waste of time, time which we do not have, Gwyneth, to go to the Circle to save this fool of a boy. He dealt with a demon, he should have to deal with the consequences.”

 

“We need the Arl for this, Morrigan. Killing his heir won’t exactly endear us to him.”

 

The witch waved a careless hand. “Blame the twit he wedded himself to. ‘Twas she who hired a simpleton to teach her son and led the boy to this.”

 

Gwyn bristled at the insult to the mage, her friend Jowan. Sten leapt in, “Why is this a debate? Slay the boy and let’s be on with this. If we depart and he is alive, the undead will just massacre the survivors anyway.”

 

“Only if he is awake.” Leliana’s voice was firm, “We have all seen it. If the boy is asleep, the demon cannot work its foul magic. I can administer a draught that will keep him unconscious. I can stay here to tend him, when it’s close to time for it to wear off, I just put a few drops in his mouth, rub his throat to make him swallow, _et voila._ ”

 

Starting to pace, Gwyn chewed at her thumbnail. “That could work. What do you think, Alistair?”

 

He startled, and swallowed down nerves as four pairs of eyes turned to him. He knew Redcliffe the best, and Gwyn needed his honest input. “At least one of us would need to stay here. Leliana could show the Arlessa how to administer the draught so she has to take responsibility, and she knows we’re not poisoning Connor. The person who stays behind would ensure that she administered more on time until we returned. We have to try, at least. Even if we aren’t able to free Connor from the demon, we would be able to show that we did everything in our power to help. When Arl Eamon wakes, even if Connor is… dead… he wouldn’t be upset if we did everything we could to save him.”

 

She had her back to Morrigan, Sten, and Leliana, and only he got to see the look of relief that crossed Gwyn’s face. With a nod, she turned back to their party. “I agree with Alistair. Morrigan, I would like for you to stay here.”

 

Morrigan’s face darkened, and she opened her mouth to speak. Gwyn held up a hand, “You are a mage, Morrigan. You will be able to tell if the demon is attempting to purge the draught from Connor and take action if we are not back yet. Maker willing, you can drum some sense into the Arlessa’s head. If we don’t make it in time, do what must be done. I- I would prefer that Arlessa Isolde be the one to actually do the deed, though.”

 

A winged black brow rose at that. “Indeed? And why so?”

 

“Actions have consequences. The Arlessa's selfishness has destroyed many of Redcliffe’s families. She must take responsibility and if Connor must die, she should do it so she can feel the consequences of what she has done.” Alistair’s gut twisted. It was fair. Harsh, bordering on cruel, but fair.

 

Sten grunted, “This is a waste of time.”

 

Gwyn drew herself up to full height, still barely to the Qunari’s solar plexus and marched up to him, jabbing a finger into his breastplate. “The last Archdemon took twelve years and all the nations of Thedas to defeat. Do you really think I can just march up to Urthemiel, stick a sword in him, and be done with it in time for supper, Sten? I am making my choice here and now, and I will not be swayed. Do what you must, but we need the mages and Redcliffe, as many people as possible to delay the Archdemon, depose the traitor Teyrn, and allow forces from the other Grey Warden contingents to come into Ferelden."

  


Sten loomed over her, purple eyes full of disapproval, but he grunted, “I concede the point, Warden.”

 

Alistair blew out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

 

“Leliana, Morrigan, go fetch the Arlessa and get to work on the sedative. Hero-” the mabari woofed an acknowledgement, “Stay with Connor and come fetch me if he starts to wake.”

 

A sharp bark in response, and Hero nosed the door open to trot down the hall.

 

“Sten, I need for you to fill our packs and get horses from the Bann. The faster we can get to Kinloch, the better, and going on foot is not an efficient use of time in that regard.”

 

With a last grunt and a nod of his head, Sten left the room. Gwyn collapsed into a chair, hand pressed to her chest. “Sweet Andraste, I think my heart is going to pound its way out of my chest.”

 

“Thank you, Gwyn, for doing this for Connor. I’m no fan of the Arlessa, but he shouldn’t pay for her mistakes.” Alistair felt tongue-tied, unable to say more and make sure she understood just how much it meant to him.

 

Large green eyes turned up to meet his. “It’s not just that, Alistair. I don’t want an innocent child’s blood on my hands if I can help it. Any alternative we can find is worth investigating. Also… it’s a chance for us mages to show how much good we can do. I spent so many years hearing that I was cursed, destined to be an abomination, worthless because of my magic. We need to slay Urthemiel and save Connor for all the other mages fighting that.”

 

Anger boiled in his chest as she looked down at her slim, delicate hands as they twisted with anxiety in her lap. He hadn’t known many girls in his life, but the determination and sheer goodness of this one made him want to find every Templar and Chantry mother that had made her feel worthless and give them a thrashing they’d never forget.

  


He watched the way her long ears drooped with exhaustion. “Have you slept, Gwyn?”

 

“I tried, but couldn’t. After fighting off the undead, and all this,” She covered her eyes with a trembling hand, “We have to leave as soon as possible, there’s no time for sleep.”

 

“You’re pretty light, and I was taught how to ride at the monastery. I can hold you in my lap so you can try to sleep while we’re on the first leg.”

 

“What about you, Alistair? Have you slept?”

 

“Ah, I can get a knight’s saddle. Between the plate armor and the way the saddle is shaped, as long as I lash my legs to it appropriately, I can sleep sitting up while you’re on your horse and you can hold its lead.”

 

She smiled, that smile that always set off a storm of butterflies in his stomach and stole his breath away. “You know, you have amazing ideas. Are you sure you don’t want to lead?”

 

“What?! No! I told you it’s a bad idea, and I don’t want to end up lost without pants!”

 

“There has to be a story behind that,” Gwyn giggled.

 

“I’ll tell it to you sometime, if you promise to sleep.”

 

She poked out a pinky, and he stuck his out to link with hers. “I promise, Alistair. Just don’t drop me.”

 

“I would never!”

  
  



	9. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts. Write out the Companion POV when approaching the Inquisitor after everything is said and done.
> 
> Solas approaches Fen'lath on the balcony at Halamshiral.

Lady Morrigan glided past him without even sparing a glance. Just another elf in Orlais, and who had any time for them? Solas allowed himself an amused brow raise. 

 

The mage obviously thought herself above others. The tone she had taken with Fen’lath earlier had raised his hackles, speaking down to her and appealing to her in turn. The dark-haired woman either had not noticed him shadowing them, close enough to hear the full conversation and drive off others who might listen in, or dismissed him off-hand as Fen’s servant. The human mage didn’t seem to recognize that anyone else could possibly possess unusual magical strength or a keen mind. Solas was certain she had met her match in Fen, who he considered his equal in most everything. 

 

Turning back towards the balcony, he observed his  _ vhenan _ for a moment. Even knowing she had won, that Celene was aware her throne was hers purely through the good graces of the elves, she looked worn and tired. Fen’s little leaf-ears drooped, and her shoulders slumped under the weight of all the burdens she bore. Despite the exhaustion and the ridiculous pomaded Orlesian hairdo, she managed to radiate the powerful wildness of spirit he had come to love if one knew what to look for.

 

He stepped out into the cool night air, a welcome comfort after the stifling heat of the ballroom. The hat he wore, necessary to mark him out as a servant of the Inquisition and not one of the Orlesian elves, added to the discomfort. Even the satisfaction that a subtle jab at Orlais wearing a Drasca helm brought him didn’t detract from the fact that it was holding so much heat in. The uniform he was required to wear was many layers of heavy fabric, and the press of many bodies and the garment had him just as eager for the air as the company.

 

Fen leaned into the balcony railing as he stepped up next to her. Tired, yet welcoming eyes turned up to meet his. She brushed a few trailing strands of ebony out of her face as she greeted him with a smile.

 

“I’m not surprised to find you out here,” he murmured to her, settling in on the railing at her elbow, gently nudging her with his shoulder.  “Thoughts?”

 

Straightening, Fen’s smile shifted from warm to ironic. “I don’t think this is over. I have a feeling this is only a temporary victory.”

 

“There’s much, much more trouble ahead,” he agreed. She was wise to see that the peace she had bought with fire and blood would only last so long. “For now, focus on what’s in front of you.”

 

A startled laugh broke out of her and she inclined her head at the disaster in the courtyard below them. There were still marks from her fireballs on the masonry and walkways, and elven servants scurrying to and fro piling Venatori bodies up in a barrow for disposal. Some were on hands and knees scrubbing at the scorch marks, and trying to rinse blood from the grass.

  
He shook his head, a an answering chuckle breaking free. Perhaps it was a poor choice of metaphor, being where they were. Solas settled a supportive hand on her shoulder, sensitive ears picking up the final flourish of the song the court musicians were playing, and the delighted applause. The first notes of the next song drifted to them. Perhaps it was all the wine he’d been drinking before talking to the other elves to seem like he was a loose-lipped drunk dealing in the currency of servants’ gossip, or the rush of being at court, any court. 

 

Before he could stop himself, he requested, “Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

 

When Fen’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open, he backed away and bowed in the courtly way of Elvhenan. Solas loved watching as her cheeks darkened, then she folded her hands gracefully and tilted her head, just as he’d shown her high-born ladies of Arthalan would do in their shared dreams. With the moon behind her casting the marks on her cheeks in shadow, he could pretend for a moment they didn’t exist, and that they truly were at a soiree in the ancient elvhen city. 

 

“Excellent idea. I’d love to.” Her little hand folded itself into his, and Solas swept her into his arms. 

 

He started with a formal Orlesian waltz to reassure himself that she danced it just as well with him as with Dorian. It would be uncivil to admit it, but when she had been dancing with Dorian earlier in the evening, he had been unreasonably jealous. The Tevinter magister and his heart made an exceedingly handsome couple, with everything from their skin tone, height, and even the purples of Fen’s gown and the peacock teals of Dorian’s garb playing off each other to perfection. The natural ease between the two could not be discounted, nor the grace with which they danced when partnered together. 

 

The next song was slower, allowing them to get closer and sort of shuffle to the music, although it was still graceful. Any dance that Fen performed was, thanks to her natural talents. Her head rested on his chest, a benefit from their differences in height. The rush of warmth that went through him had nothing to do with wine or heavily layered garments.

 

“I wish we could leave for Skyhold immediately.” Her voice was soft, mournful.

 

“You do not wish to stay?” His own voice was just as soft. 

 

Solas felt her shudder against his chest. “We have to hide what we are to each other here. I don’t like that.”

 

A surge of pride filled him. While the extra weeks they would spend in Orlais gave him time to communicate with his network, recruit, and spread their influence under Briala’s nose, it certainly pleased him that her reason for not wanting to stay was because they could not be open with their affections and show that the most powerful woman yet breathing had given her heart to a man who, by all appearances, was an apostate mage. All of his agents knew that the first of his orders was to protect Fen’lath, with their life if necessary, and they were to operate alongside, never against, those who acted on behalf of the Inquisition. 

 

“I can certainly make it up to you when we get back to Skyhold. ” He curled a knuckle under her chin, tilting her face to his for a soft kiss. “And there, the elven serving man dared to be familiar with the Inquisitor in full view of the ballroom if anyone cared to look.”

 

Her smile was a wine more heady than any the vineyards of Thedas had ever produced. “Do you think we dare to misbehave out here a little while longer?”

 

“For as long as it takes for Lady Montilyet to realize we are not present and hunt us down.” Solas laughed at the long-suffering groan Fen let out. “The Empress has retired, and you,  _ vhenan _ , are technically the highest-ranking person present. If I recall the etiquette lessons we were all required to attend, you may now retire whenever you like.”

 

“Thank the Creators, Stone, and Lady of the Skies,” Fen muttered under her breath as he chuckled. “I have been dying to get back to my room and take a bath.”

 

She turned away, then looked back at him over her shoulder, sweeping her lashes down, then peering up at him through them. “Would you care to join me,  _ ma vhenan _ ?”

 

“I will leave you to your bath,” he watched her face fall momentarily, “But I will be waiting for you after,  _ ma’theneras _ . My waking dream.”

 

Fen swept away, graceful as any human queen could hope to be. Solas waited a few minutes for propriety’s sake before re-entering the ballroom. He was discreet, tilting his head only slightly to signal to his agents planted in the Winter Palace. 

 

He would meet with Fen after her bath, but until then, he had his own Game to play. 

  
  



	10. Hawkeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: An event that shapes the beginning of your OC's life.
> 
> A young Marian Hawke wants to be good, just like her father.

“Apples!  Fresh apples, direct from the orchards of Highever! The finest in Ferelden, none better to be found!”

 

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade,

For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light.”

 

“Fish, fish, salt fish from Gwaren!”

 

“Leather goods! Dalish, Marcher, Antivan, and more! If we don’t have it, no nation makes it!”

 

The cacophony of the Denerim marketplace and the criers for the different stalls echoed around Marian and her parents. Wide-eyed, the young girl tried to take in everything. Their village, so small it wasn’t on the map between Denerim and Dragon’s Peak, didn’t have anything like the crowded market.

 

The Chantry dominated the north end, its spire visible over all the buildings and the center square. Nobles on horseback headed for the tavern, and merchants rubbed shoulders with runners both human and elven, scurrying to and fro with messages and goods. Mumma and Papa walked on either side of Marian, keeping a tight grip on her hands so she wouldn’t get lost or trampled underfoot. Her black curls bounced as she whipped her head from side to side, gasping at glimpsing a dwarf, her very first, with curious delight. Leaning towards the dwarf, Marian tried to peer around her father’s legs for a better look.

 

“Stop pulling, Marian. We can do more sightseeing after your father is done with his business here.”

 

“Let her be, Leandra, it’s the first time Marian’s seen anything like this.”

 

Her mother let out a soft huff, and Marian went back to trying to see everything at once. Mumma and Papa hadn’t said why they were going to Denerim, but it was very exciting for her to come along. She was finally big enough to join them on a trip and not be left back in their village with one of the other families for the week. Entering through the city gates had been breathtaking. She could see easily from one end of the main road through the village to the other, and here it wasn’t even possible to see the tops of some of the buildings!

 

They passed through the market, to the east end where the inn for the merchants and other non-nobles passing through could find a room for the night. Clinging to Mumma’s skirts, Marian peered around the main room, the dark barely illuminated by the smoky lamps overhead. Papa could easily light the whole place by himself, like he did with the candles at home.

 

Papa got the key for a room, and he picked her up to climb the stairs. “How’s my little Hawkeling doing, hmm?”

 

“Well, Papa.” Marian tried to stop a yawn, but it still squeaked out of her.

 

He laughed and said, “It looks like it’s naptime, little one.”

 

Marian stuck her lower lip out in a pout, but didn’t argue. Turning to her Mumma at the door of their room, Papa said, “Leandra, take the money pouch and get yourself some of that lace you like, and some food from the market.”

 

Mumma’s eyes lit up at the mention of the lace. All the pillows on Mumma and Papa’s bed were trimmed with it, and she had said when they left the village she hoped to get some to trim their quilt. “Are you sure you can handle Marian without me, dear?”

 

“Of course, love.”

 

Entering their room, Papa slung off the pack hanging from his shoulder, and after pulling back the curtain that separated the ‘bedroom’ section from the main room, inspected the bed as he held Marian.

 

“Well, little lady, it’s not your trundle, but it’ll do, eh?”

 

She nodded sleepily, and was asleep before he finished tucking her in.

* * *

The soft murmur of voices woke Marian. Mumma and Papa, and one she didn’t know.

 

“Would you like more tea, Ser?”

 

“Just one more moment, Ser Otto, and I’ll be done.”

 

“Thank you, Hawke, Mistress Hawke, you have been most kind.”

 

Climbing off the bed, making sure she was quiet as she could be, she crept to the curtain and peered past it to the table and chairs in the main room. There was a man sitting at the table with Papa and Mumma, and Marian was surprised to see an elven woman sitting next to the strange man. She stuffed her fingers against her mouth when she saw the terrible marks on the man’s face, burns surrounding his eyes and stretching across his temples and the top of his head, which was shorn clean.

 

Papa was running his hands along the man’s torso, like he did when he was checking Marian for hurts when she fell down. The green glow emanating from them faded.

 

“I’ve done what I can, Ser Otto. The scars will fade in time, but I’m afraid that there’s no more I can do for your eyes. I’m surprised you trust an apostate, after what was done to you.”

 

“From what I understand, Hawke, Leorah here knew you in Kirkwall before being sent to the Circle here in Ferelden. You have a mutual friend back in the Gallows, and he vouched for you.”

 

“You’re not going to turn Malcolm in, are you Ser Otto?” The elven woman, Leorah, spoke up, worry crossing her face.

 

“No. As our friend put it, rule does not serve by caging he best of us. I’d not deprive the alienage here of the only mage healer they can access, either.”

 

Leorah nodded, “Malcolm has always been a friend to elves, no matter where he is.”

 

“My Malcolm is a good man. Every difficulty has been worth it.” Mumma’s voice was firm, like she had to convince Leorah and the man, Ser Otto, that Marian’s Papa was good.

 

Leorah sat forward, “I’m sure your little girl will be just as good as you, Malcolm. I just hope she doesn’t face the same… difficulties… that you and I have.”

 

Papa’s face pinched with worry, “There have been no signs, Maker be praised. I’ve done my best to start teaching her to treat the family of elves in our village as well as she would anyone else. I’ll never forget that you befriended me when I was all alone, a new apprentice in Kirkwall who missed his family terribly.”

 

Ser Otto reached out carefully, grasping Papa’s arm. “I will pray for you, Malcolm Hawke, Mistress Hawke.”

 

“Thank you, Ser Otto,” Mumma rested her hands on Papa’s shoulders, looking proud and worried at the same time.

 

Marian snuck back to the bed. She wanted to be good like her Papa. Determined, she vowed that she would be friends with Merri and Sayern, the children of the elves that lived in their village. The other children were mean and called them names, and tried to twist their long, pretty ears. She would help, and she would be good. Just like her Papa.


	11. Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Rain for days, caves, contemplative/restless, blue, and sight
> 
> Gwyn and Wynne talk about their feelings towards the Circle while the party travels to Haven.

She remembered very little from her youth in Highever, but Gwyneth could remember the rain. As a child, it had been welcome. She and Elissa Cousland would run out into the Highever Keep’s courtyard and jump in the puddles, giving no thought to the mud staining the hems of their gowns. Gwyn would give anything to be able to go back to that. It would be much more welcome than the freezing, miserable, damp drizzle that was falling in the Frostbacks as her group made their way from Honnleath to Haven. 

 

The caves that littered the mountain range provided cover, thank the Maker. Gwyn squeezed excess water from her hair near the mouth of the evening’s chosen cave, then wrapped her arms around herself as she drew back into the enclosing stone. Shale and Sten were at the mouth of the cave, silent giants keeping watch together. The fire Morrigan had started was crackling merrily, Wynne hovering over it and the pot of stew that would be their supper. 

 

Gwyn sat down amid the piles of clothing laid out to dry in the heat. The bedrolls had been dried first, so Alistair, Zevran, Leliana, and Morrigan were all bundled in their respective rolls and sleeping while they could. Hero, the silly mutt, had nosed his way under Alistair and was acting as a pillow. 

 

“What’s on your mind, Gwyneth? You weren’t this quiet even as a child when you first came to Kinloch.” Wynne’s face was drawn in concern. 

 

“I didn’t realize you knew of me back then.” She stirred the coals with a stick. “You were always busy with the older apprentices and the new Enchanters.”

 

“Oh, I knew about you. Irving rarely took personal interest in the little ones, so when he took you under his wing, there was plenty of gossip. And you’re avoiding the question.”

 

Gwyn let out a frustrated, restless noise. “I’m thinking about Amelia and Connor.”

 

“Poor children. Their lives will not be easier after this. The Circle-”

 

“I’m angry at the Circle.”

 

“What? Why?” Wynne couldn’t have looked more shocked if Gwyn had leaned across the fire and slapped her.

 

“ _ Think _ , Wynne. We’re told from the moment we arrive in the Circle that the only way to break a demon’s thrall over someone is to kill them. I’ve just freed two children from demons without harming a hair on their heads.”

 

The older mage blinked in surprise.

 

“How long have Circles been needlessly slaughtering mages who could have been given a second chance? Do the Templars even know? Is it that the Chantry knows and doesn’t care, or do they not consider us worth using the lyrium?”

 

“If they were aware, I’m certain they would do what they could to save us!”

 

“I’m not as certain as you are. Mages have been paying for the sins of a handful of greedy, vain people for how long?”

 

“The Second Sin-”

 

“Was caused by greed, and the drive for more power. Last I checked, that’s not the sole provenance of mages. Look at-” Gwyn’s voice broke, and she had to take a few deep breaths, “Look at what happened to Highever. I’m more likely to become Queen of the Anderfels than the Couslands were to betray Ferelden to Orlais.”

 

“Gwyneth… the Circles are needed to protect mages while they come into their power and learn. It’s too dangerous for everyone involved for us not to get training in how to resist demons.”

 

“I don’t doubt that when the Circles were first founded, that’s how they worked. Now, we’re prisoners. You couldn’t even keep your son! I heard you talking to Alistair, I know what happened. I’ve read the whole Chant, there’s nothing in there that says that mage children need to be taken away, or that mages shouldn’t be able to have families. We’re like cattle, maybe worth even less than cattle. People are upset when one of their cows dies needlessly.”

 

Dashing the back of her hand against her cheeks, Gwyn wiped away the angry tears that leaked down her cheeks. 

 

Wynne stirred the stew, a troubled look on her face. “The Circle saved my life.”

 

“Would you have needed the Circle if mages weren’t feared, and allowed to stay with their families?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I was taken away from a Mumma and Papa I loved very much. I only know what happened to them because Lady Eleanor still cared for me and would write to me. Solona got letters up until her mother went into seclusion, and after all four of her siblings ended up being mages, she stopped hearing from her father. Five children… who knows where the others are now?” Gwyn stood. “I’m going to try to sleep a little before the food is done.”

 

“All right.” The troubled look on Wynne’s face had deepened, and her eyes flicked from Gwyn, to Alistair, and back. There was probably a lecture coming, Gwyn could feel it in her bones. Still, she wouldn’t pretend that she didn’t care about Alistair, and bundled into her roll right next to him. Hero cracked an eye open to see who was moving, and gave her a soft ‘boof’ of welcome. 

 

Gwyn pulled her rucksack close to use as a pillow, hearing the clink of bottles inside. Reaching in, she pulled out one of the lyrium potions she’d obtained at Kinloch Hold, a ‘thank you’ for helping clear the Tower. Even processed and diluted, it glowed a brilliant blue. Again, she found herself wondering how many had knowingly been allowed to die just because the Chantry didn’t want the extra lyrium expense. 

 

She shoved the bottle back in, wanting it out of her sight. Curling up against Alistair’s back, she shuddered. Right now, she missed Torven and Farriah, her foster parents, more than she had in years. Gwyn would have given anything to have Torven call her his Little Fox, tug gently on her braid, and listen seriously to what was troubling her. Farriah would brush and re-braid her hair, then hug her close and sing until everything was better.

 

If only singing would fix everything now. 

 


	12. Learn to Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your OC and LI have either adopted a child or had one of their own. The child can be up to 4 years old. Describe one major milestone with the family (2am feeding and diaper change, learning to walk, eating solid foods, potty training, night terrors, learning to read and write, etc). Is the family multi-lingual/multi-national? How does this affect things?
> 
> Little Maureva Hawke takes her first steps.

“Oops! Watch where you’re scooting, little miss!” Orana danced nimbly to the side, narrowly avoiding Maureva. 

 

Marian gave an amused grin to Orana as she carefully stepped around Maureva with the stack of clean linens intended for the kitchen. The baby was on the floor, crawling and exploring the sitting room. Occasionally, she was pulling herself up using the end tables to stand and survey her little kingdom. 

 

“Look at you, my little Ladybird! Are you going to show Papa the progress you’ve made when he gets back from seeing Uncle Sebastian?”

 

“Mama!” The baby gave her a toothy grin.

 

Maureva got down on the floor and crawled over to the settee, pulling herself up and reaching for her mother. Marian laughed and picked her up, cuddling her close and tickling her. 

 

“Who said you could grow so fast, hmm? Was it Uncle Varric? Maybe Uncle Carver? You shouldn’t listen to them, Maura, they’re trying to make your Mumma old before her time.”

 

The baby giggled, “Ma!”

 

“I told you no such thing, young lady!”

 

Giggling again, Maureva squirmed and Marian set her down on the floor again. Tiny hands gripped the edge of the settee and she edged herself along, reaching for Fenris’s favorite chair. Her little fingers just brushed the edge, but it was just too far out of her reach for her to grab onto and hold herself up. With a frustrated noise, she dropped down and crawled to the chair, then pulled herself up again. 

 

Standing and stretching, Marian followed her around the room. Someone’s small hands had a habit of pulling things they could reach off the end tables and putting them in their mouth. Even after clearing them off or moving things where they should be out of Maureva’s reach, she still managed to get ahold of them somehow. Marian often found herself dashing across the room to keep her from sticking things in her mouth, so it seemed to be less stressful to just follow her around when she was exploring while standing. 

 

From the hallway, there was a rumble of voices. Orana’s high, sweet tones, and the low rumble of Fenris greeting her in return. A softer male voice spoke after, Sebastian. He was a frequent visitor to the holding, playing with Maureva as well as spoiling her with gifts and love. 

 

The rumbling of the two mens’ voices came closer, and Maureva quickly turned her head towards the sitting room door, raven curls bouncing with the movement. “Dada!”

 

“I hear a little Lady Hawke,” Sebastian’s call rang through the foyer.

 

“Baba!” 

 

Marian laughed. It appeared Sebastian had gotten his own name from Maureva. 

 

“Where’s my little beauty? Is the best and bravest girl in all Starkhaven getting into trouble?” Fenris smiled, one of his rare, fully relaxed and happy smiles as he entered the room.

 

Maureva bounced on her toes while holding his chair, “Dada Dada Dada Dada!”

 

“There she is!” 

 

Coming forward to kiss her husband, Marian murmured, “I missed you.”

 

He gave her a little smirk, “It was only a few hours, Marian.”

 

“It would have been longer, Hawke, but I insisted on getting out of the palace.” Sebastian grimaced, “Our Revered Mother is getting rather huffy about me spending so much time in the company of an ‘unholy Vint-raised elf’ and his family.”

 

“Baba!” Maureva called, waving at Sebastian. 

 

He smiled and waved back at her, “Hello, little lady. I agree, she’s just going to have to live with it, hmm?”

 

She smiled and bounced on her toes again. 

 

Marian strummed her fingernails together unconsciously with nervousness. “Is it going to be a problem, Sebastian?”

 

“Definitely not. I’m the Prince, not her.”

 

Fenris laid a hand on Marian’s shoulder to get her attention, and with a wide-eyed look, he pointed at Maureva. She had taken a wobbly step away from the chair, and was holding her arms out to Fenris. Two more unsteady steps, and she sat down hard on the thick Rivaini carpet. Maureva blinked her eyes owlishly, then pushed herself up to crawl and grab onto Fenris’s leg. 

 

“Dada!”

 

“She walked,” Marian breathed out, tears stinging her eyes. Her baby was growing so fast, much too fast.

 

Fenris picked up Maureva and swung her high into the air while she shrieked with delight. “Well done, my beauty! My brave, brave girl!”

 

Sebastian leaned in and chucked Maureva under the chin as she laughed and clapped. “She’ll be ready to learn the bow in no time.”

 

“I must protest, Sebastian, she will be learning to use a broadsword.” Fenris gave his friend a mock-outraged look.

 

“I hate to disappoint both of you, but obviously she’s going to be a halberd girl.” Marian sniffed and took Maureva from Fenris to hug her. She was so, so proud of her baby girl, but it distressed her to think that she wouldn’t stay this small and innocent forever. Soon she would be walking, then running, and someday, her little Hawke would spread her wings and fly.

 


	13. From the Mists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visual Prompt: A black wolf surrounded by fog.
> 
> Fen'lath has been dreaming of Solas nightly since the Exalted Council, and has something important to tell him

Fen’lath examined herself in the mirror, marvelling at the rapidly-growing swell of her stomach. Josephine was working herself into a lather because the official story circulated after the Exalted Council had stated that she’d only spoken to Solas before he took her arm. Her advancing pregnancy clearly and definitively showed they had done far more than just talk, and the reactions of the powers of Thedas were wildly varied. 

 

Leliana, acting as Divine Victoria, had issued congratulations, stating that the children were a blessing, and that she believed the love that had created them would heal whatever ills there were to come.

 

King Alistair sent Solona Amell back to Skyhold to serve as a midwife. He had heard about Abelas’Solas, and the message she brought with her said that he knew what it was like to lose children, as the late Queen Elissa had unsuccessful pregnancies along with the three that produced the Princesses and Princes. There was also a comment about knowing what it was like to love someone a prominent figure should not, despite everything. Fen took it to be a reference to his not-so-secret relationship with Gwyneth Surana.

 

Empress Celene and Marquise Briala sent rather frosty ‘felicitations’. It made Fen laugh to read the overly-flowery letter that essentially said, “How dare you save my empire again and then have the audacity to try to grasp some happiness for yourself? Congratulations, I hope you choke.”

 

The Nevarran, Antivan, and Rivaini leadership were calling on the Divine to strip Fen of her title of  Inquisitor, even though it was mostly a courtesy title at this point, and imprison her for ‘colluding’ with Solas. Josephine said that there were rumors that these demands were most likely because of Duke Cyril and Arl Teagan’s vocal denouncements at the conclusion of the Council. 

 

Aside from Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven and Varric speaking for Kirkwall, the Free Marches were all but baying for her blood, certain she was going to call hordes of ‘savage Dalish’ down on their heads to present the Marches to Solas on a platter, or overthrow their cities and make them accept elves on their councils like Wycome. Fen snorted to herself. Without her vallaslin, most of the Marcher Dalish wouldn’t spit on her to put out a fire. Such was her fate in accepting that the markings so many bore with pride were chains of another nature. The Dalish in Orlais and Ferelden were friendlier, but she was set on a pedestal because of the voices from the Well whispering ancient secrets to her.

 

Archon Radonis had sent her a message stating he was sending some gifts for her, though they had yet to arrive. Stone-Bear Hold had sent a supply of fine blankets and wraps suitable for caring for babies so high up in the Frostbacks. Her father was bringing the Boranehn clan to Skyhold so he could introduce her to her half-brothers as well as help care for her. 

 

Dagna was squirrelled away in the Undercroft working on a prosthetic arm for her as a baby gift. The proof of concept arm was amazing, a work of art done in fine Brecilian beech inlaid with silver to represent how the actual silverite and lyrium one would look. Currently, the diminutive Arcanist was working out how to make the fine pulleys of leather-wrapped sinew inlaid with lyrium respond to Fen like they were actual tendons and nerves. 

 

From the corner of Fen’s eye, a gentle blue flash of light caught her attention. Dorian’s communication crystal signalled that her beloved friend was attempting to contact her.  Her first attempt to grab it was unsuccessful, considering she reached for it, out of habit, with a hand that was no longer there. Taking it up with her right hand, she cleared her throat to make sure her voice sounded normal as she pressed her thumb into the groove in the center, and sending a trickle of mana in to activate it. 

 

“Do you miss me yet, my darling?”

 

“Dorian, it’s you. I always miss you.”

 

“Then I have excellent news for you, darling. The Archon decided that none but I am worthy of bringing baby gifts to the mighty Inquisitor.”

 

Fen gave her crystal a wry grin. “You mean you and Maevaris are getting on his nerves already and he wants to separate you for a bit.”

 

“I am shocked. Possibly even appalled. Are you saying that it could only be a ruse on his part and he doesn’t appreciate my company?” The laughter in his voice was clear. 

 

“Certainly not in the way I do, my love. He doesn’t have my refined taste.”

 

“Oh, you are getting too good at this, Fen. It pains me that the Imperium will never know the razor edge of your wit. But enough about my magnificent company, how are you doing?”

 

“As well as can be expected, but now I’m impatient to see you. Will your usual escort be bringing you to me?”

 

“As if he would let me go anywhere without him, sappy lummox.”

  
“You love it,”she teased.

 

“Oh I do, but I can’t let Bull know it or his head will get too big, and it already takes up too much room with those horns of his.”

 

“How long until you get here?” There was a knock at the landing door. “One moment, Dorian, someone’s knocking.”

 

Fen dropped the crystal to her chest, and his response was muffled by the fabric of her tunic. She pulled open the door, and let out a surprised gasp when he was standing on the other side, grinning from ear-to-ear, a large pack hanging off his shoulder.

 

“As I was saying, about thirty seconds.”

 

“DORIAN!”  She jumped at him, whole arm hooking around his neck, the shortened one wrapping around him as much as it could for a hug.

 

“Careful, darling, you have my niece and nephew in there.”

  
Fen let out a bark of laughter. “Your father is rolling in his grave, and I’m sure your mother just fainted in horror without knowing why.”

 

“Just a normal day, darling.” He set her down on her feet, and gave her a tight squeeze. “Bull is in the Rest, getting the Chargers settled back in. Cabot is despairing over the alcohol stores.”

 

“I can only imagine. That one vintner in Val Royeaux still won’t supply him with any more after the last time they were here.”

 

Dorian smiled, then his face fell, “Are you doing all right, darling? Truly?”

 

“Truthfully? No. He’s checking on me in my dreams, I know he is.”

 

“How do you know?” They moved to her settee and he pulled her down next to him, tucking her dark head under his chin. 

 

“When I dream, I’m in the forests back home outside Wycome, but they’re full of fog and mist. A large black wolf with red eyes emerges from the mists and watches me. I try to approach it and if I call it Solas, it will whine and back away, and I wake up.”

 

“Oh, my dear.”

 

“He’ll sit and listen if I just talk without using his name. I haven’t told him about the babies yet, but I’m going to tonight. He deserves to know… and I hope it might change his plans.”

* * *

_ The giant black wolf emerged from the billows of fog, eyes resting on the figure sitting at the edge of the riverbank. _

 

_ “Is it that time already?” Fen’lath had her back to him. She stood with ease, the Fade itself acknowledging her grace. “Ma vhenan.” _

 

_ He whined, and dropped his snout.  _

 

_ “Please, don’t leave! Not yet. You need to know.” She turned quickly. Fen was no Dreamer, but, having borne the Anchor for so long had allowed her a degree of control in the Fade that other mages did not have. It meant her body appeared as it was in the waking world, not a dream facsimile.  _

 

_ Solas froze in place, and Fen ran a nervous hand over her pregnant belly. _

 

_ “I’m naming them Fenrevas and Fenenansalin.” _


	14. Babies and Arcanists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your Inquisitors arm has been fixed, either by magic or machinery. Who repaired it? Why?
> 
> Grandpa Yewvhan Lavellan babysits his new grandchildren.

Fen’lath was asleep, taking advantage of the fact that she had plenty of on-call babysitters for the twins. Truthfully, she was probably the best-rested new mother in Thedas. 

 

Yewvhan had Fenrevas in his arms, watching the baby girl’s eyes flutter in her sleep. The copper wisps on her head and fine lashes resting on her cheeks reminded him so much of Tenala, his  _ fen’len _ ’s mother, although Fen claimed it likely came from Revas’s father. Tenala’s hair had been a darker shade, but he was so pleased to see his beloved bondmate’s heritage had come through in her granddaughter’s hair color somewhat, along with the ears he could tell were going to be little leaf-ears, like Fen’s. Revas was always quietest when he held her. Fen joked it was the herb-and-smoke scent that clung to his robes as Keeper for Boranehn, but he remembered his  _ fen’len _ herself being just as calm and quiet in her sling when he had taken turns carrying her as Lavellan traversed the Free Marches. 

 

He had loved holding his sons, Fen’s half-brothers, Evhan and Sayne, when they were babies, but there was just something extra special about holding a daughter or granddaughter. The boys were down in the Herald’s Rest, being entertained and kept out of trouble by Dalish and her tales of traveling with the Chargers while the rest of the clan camped on the edge of the forest below the fortress to hunt. The Iron Bull had left Dalish and Grim to watch over Yewvhan’s daughter and grandchildren, knowing that plenty of of the political powers in Thedas would not be sorry for the little family to be removed from many an equation. 

 

The human Charger, quite surprisingly, turned out to be an excellent babysitter. He was sitting on the ugly green settee that some Orlesians had sent Fen during the Corypheus crisis, Fenenasalin asleep in the crook of his arm. Grim hummed to himself and read Varric Tethras’s book about Fen’lath. Occasionally, Enasalin burbled or let out a little whine in his sleep, and Grim would hum louder and gently bounce the baby until he settled. The boy had Fen’s raven hair covering his fragile skull, but that was the extent of his inheritance from his mother so far. 

  
  


A few days after the babies had been born, she had gently touched the little dimple in the boy’s chin and traced the line of his ears, saying, “These are his father’s. I think Enasalin will look very similar to him.”

 

She had looked so sad as she propped the tiny, brand new baby up against her chest with a pillow and the stump of her left arm. Fen obviously loved the Dread Wolf still. A prickle passed down his spine. To know that Fen’Harel was the father of the sweet, darling children his fen’len had given birth to... As a Keeper, he should be defending the clan, not to mention his daughter, from the Wolf. But, Fen carried the knowledge of the ancients and said that things were not what they seemed. She seemed reluctant to say more, especially with his clan staying close to Skyhold. His current bondmate, Vhenassa, was vocal with her suspicion of and disdain for Fen’s lack of  _ vallaslin _ , especially as a  _ Harel’len _ .

 

There was a tap on the door at the base of the stairs. Grim sat up, placing Enasalin in the cradle that Thom had carved two years ago, the first time Fen had been with child. He removed the pair of wicked-looking daggers he carried from their sheaths, and crept down to the door. Yewvhan took a few steps toward the cradle, ready to place Revas next to her brother and protect his grandchildren if necessary. 

 

“Thank you, Grim!” Dagna’s bright chirp echoed up the stairs before she could be shushed. “Oops, is Fen’lath sleeping?”

 

“ _ Grunt. _ ”

 

“Gotcha.” Her voice was much quieter in reply. Dagna tiptoed up the stairs and grinned at Yewvhan as he swayed back and forth with Revas. “How’re the nuglets doing?”

 

“Very well, thank you.” He felt a proud smile cross his face, “They are some of the quietest babies I’ve ever seen.”

 

Dagna set the bundle she was clutching to her chest on Fen’s desk, then crept over to the cradle as Grim settled back with the book. Enasalin let out a little huffing sniff, then settled. The dwarf brushed her fingers over his cheek, “He’s gonna look like Solas.”

 

Yewvhan stiffened, “You knew him?”

 

“Not well,” Dagna tucked the edge of the baby’s halla-wool blanket in, “but he would spend time in the Undercroft answering questions for me, and he had some suggestions for magical reinforcements in Fen’lath’s armor while all the Corypheus stuff was going on. I think some of the reinforcements are the only reason she survived all the battles, but don’t let Harritt hear that.”

 

“I would never.” Yewvhan felt a little sick to his stomach, as he often did when he remembered just how close his daughter had come to dying, and how many times.

 

“In fact…” Dagna scurried back to the desk, “I used a lot of his suggestions and theories we debated to finish this.”

 

Taking the bundle, she unwrapped the fabric. Yewvhan drew in a breath, and took a step towards her. 

 

“Wait! It’s got some lyrium etching that I’m not sure would be good for babies, you’ll want to put the nuglet down first.”

 

He was torn for a moment, then placed Revas in the cradle as Grim nodded, momentarily distracted from his book again. She’d be back in her proper spot soon enough. The false arm and hand that Dagna held shone beautifully, the fingers and wrist articulated in a way similar to what he recognized from the bits of ancient elvhen armor the People had preserved. 

 

“It is beautiful, Dagna. What is it made of, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 

“I don’t mind at all!” The Arcanist beamed. “On the inside, the ‘bones’ are made of Ice Dragon bone infused with bits of Veil Quartz. Inside I have pulleys and other mechanics that move the fingers and wrist like a real hand, they’re Ice Dragon sinew wrapped in Imbued Tusket hide etched with the lyrium I mentioned. The lyrium etchings all touch each other like fancy scrollwork-I wish I could show you, it’s so pretty-and contact a flat rune at the base that matches one on the trusses I’ve designed for Fen’lath to wear over her arm and shoulder. The side of the rune that touches her arm should act like nerves and ‘talk’ to the lyrium etching and make it move almost as naturally as a real hand! “

  
She flipped the appendage over, revealing a large emerald in the palm and small veins of worked lyrium on the fingertips. “The emerald is to represent the Anchor,” she blushed a little, “and look pretty, but it should also help her direct magic through to the fingers so she can still cast with both hands as well. The outside is silverite and the leather bindings are great bear hide, also because it looks pretty. Solas gave me the ideas for the Veil Quartz infusion, the lyrium etching, and wrapping the sinew in the etched hide.”

 

Before he could stop himself, Yewvhan blurted out, “Why did you do this, Dagna?”

 

Startled, she looked up from the arm, which she had begun petting like some humans did with pet cats. “Because I can. Also, she nearly died saving all of us, it seems like the very least I could do. And she’s a good person.”

 

Yewvhan looked over to the four-poster bed, where Fen still slept, unaware of the miraculous gift Dagna had brought for her. “Yes, yes she is.”

 


	15. Four-Legged Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Codex Entry: Your OC has found a new pet.
> 
> From an old book in the University of Orlais library.

_ Several pages in this battered book have been marked with ribbons. _

 

_ The page marked with one in lyrium blue reads: _

 

The Hero’s Hero (9:30 Dragon)

 

It is not known whether Gwyneth Surana had extensive contact with the mabari that would be known as Hero prior to the Battle of Ostagar. When asked, His Majesty King Alistair stated that the only interaction (to his knowledge) was a treatment for the dog’s Blight-sickness, requested by the kennel-keeper.* If this is true, how powerful the love of a mabari is, to have imprinted on the elven mage so quickly, even after having had imprinted once before! After the notorious battle, the mabari appears to have tracked the Warden’s party out of the Korcari Wilds to the Imperial Highway, possibly surviving only on skinny rabbits and the brackish swamp water.  

  
  


It is said  Hero the mabari received his name when, after helping defeat a small offshoot of the darkspawn horde, Gwyneth flung herself to her knees to hug the dog, crying, “My hero!”

 

The mabari was at the Warden and future King’s side through everything that followed, including the saving of Kinloch Hold. Contemporary reports indicate that the Hero of Ferelden was furious with the Templars allegedly guarding the tower, famously stating she had ‘cleared the Hold in a day with naught but two Warden recruits, a grandmother, a singing laysister, and a dog’. To this day, mage children brought to the tower to see how the Warden lived for the first part of her life scratch her words into the mouldering brickwork, many with mabari of their own at their side. 

 

After the Battle of Denerim, Hero and Gwyneth were separated for a time so he could sire litters for the royal kennels, which had been particularly devastated by the Blight and the civil unrest caused by the Traitor Teyrn, Loghain. Queen Elissa Cousland’s own mabari, Honey, was mother to a full half of the litters sired. The future Queen Moira’s mabari, Smoke, was born of one such litter, as was Teyrn Duncan Surana’s Kimber. When the Warden left for the west, searching for a cure for the Warden Taint with which to save her beloved King, Her--

 

_ A large water stain has blurred the rest of the text, except for a footnote: _

  
  


  * It is to be noted that said flower was brought to the attention of the kennel-keeper by the Ash Warriors. As Hero had no ill after-effects from either the Blight or the Taint, extensive searches were made in the Wilds for more of the flower after the 5th Blight to see if the mendicant that the mabari was given would prove effective for humans suffering from Blight sickness. Extant texts indicate that the search took well on five years, with Warden assistance from Vigil’s Peak. Unfortunately, it appears that the darkspawn horde destroyed all of the flowers, and the species no longer exists. 



* * *

_ The next ribbon is a deep red most often associated with Kirkwall, and the city’s Champion. _

 

On Valor, Love, and Loyalty (9:24 Dragon)

 

It appears that Lady Marian Hawke, the future Champion of Kirkwall, was gifted with the mabari Valor for a Nameday present. Of added benefit, the young pup learned how to herd the family’s druffalo, and was able to assist young Hawke with the farm chores. When Malcolm Hawke passed in 9:27, the well-trained dog is apparently one of the few reasons the family was not immediately cast into penury. He hunted rabbits and other small game for the Hawke family, as well as continuing to accompany Lady Marian on the farm rounds, chasing off wolves and thieves alike. 

 

Valor was the one who notified the Champion’s family that Ser Carver Hawke was approaching, and was key in helping the Hawke siblings usher Lady Leandra out of their home prior to the darkspawn horde of the 5th Blight arriving at Lothering. Sadly, even the brave mabari could not prevent the death of Lady Bethany Hawke. It is said that she was laid to rest in a cairn with Ser Wesley Vallen, with one of Valor’s leather collars wrapped about her fingers in the hope that she would have mabari accompaniment at the Maker’s side. 

 

Valor comforted Lady Marian on the ship from the Port of Gwaren to Kirkwall, and earned his keep by mousing in the ship’s hold. The logbook for the ship’s captain has been found, and Valor’s mousing appears to be the only reason the mabari was allowed on the ship, as the Marcher captain did not have the attachment to the breed that a Fereldan captain would. 

 

While Lady Marian and Ser Carver were working as smugglers for Athenril the Knife*, Valor was tasked with keeping Lady Leandra safe. Gamlen Amell was not entirely happy about having the mabari live with them until he discovered that they are considered signs of wealth and status in Ferelden, lending him an air of respectability.

 

Tasked thus, he did not accompany the Champion into the Deep Roads, nor is there any extant evidence that he travelled to Chateu Haine or the Vimmark Mountains to the Grey Warden prison that held Corypheus. However, there are Qunari texts from the First Battle of Kirkwall that speak of the ‘Demon on Four Legs’, where it appears that Valor was key in helping quell the Qunari’s uprising. He is also known to have been present at the fall of the Gallows from Knight-Captain Rutherford’s accounts, where the dog fought again at his mistress’s side against the crazed Knight-Commander. 

He disappears from history at this point, only to appear once in the journal of Lady Maureva Hawke-Surana, in the line: “Mumma’s sweet Valor is gone. He breathed his last in her arms with Papa, Leto, Leander, and I present.” - dated 9:4-  _ The ink here is smeared and blurry from being grasped to turn the page. _

 

  * So named for her habit of using a small, dull knife on anyone foolish enough to call her ‘knife-ear’ to her face to cut their ears into ‘points’.



* * *

_ The final ribbon, of a bright Fade-green, marks this page. _

 

A Fine Little Friend (9:45 Dragon)

 

Shortly after the birth of her children, Fenrevas and Fenenasalin Lavellan, Inquisitor Fen’lath Lavellan found a small ginger kitten snuggled in between the babes, with a note saying, “To help you remember.” It appears that the kitten was born of one of Skyhold’s barn cats, and was placed in the cradle by the Spirit of Compassion known to history as ‘Cole’. The kitten ended the day still snuggled between the children, dubbed with the name ‘Da’Falon’, or ‘Little Friend’ in Elvhen.

 

As the Inquisitor’s twins grew, the little ginger cat became a mainstay in their nursery, sleeping between the two in their cradle, and eventually spending the nights on either of the children's beds. Letters from members of the Inquisition tell of the cat crawling across the floor with the two children in demonstration, and the young toddlers dragging a tolerant, resigned cat up and down the stairs to their nursery.

 

As time passed, it was not unusual to observe Da’Falon accompanying Fen’lath as she made the rounds in Skyhold. She would either follow behind a few paces, taking the opportunity to wind between Fen’lath’s legs when she paused to speak to people, or draped across the Inquisitor’s shoulders. 

 

There are rumors that Da’Falon once stopped a House of Repose assassination attempt while riding on Fen’lath’s shoulders. The cat appeared to be asleep, and when the assassin moved behind the Inquisitor to strike the fatal blow, she leapt from her perch and clawed at the assassin’s eyes through their mask. The attempt itself is known to have happened, as both the paper archives of Empress Celene and Divine Victoria contain confirmations of her right to sit in judgement over the assassin. 

 

It was rare for Fen’lath to hold Judgements after the Corypheus crisis, however, when she sat in judgement over the assassin, Da’Falon was seated in her lap during the proceedings. There may be truth to the cat having stopped the attempt, as it is noted in Lady Josephine Montilyet’s papers that Da’Falon growled and hissed when the man was brought to the dais. She also made note of marks on his eyelids that could be cat-scratches, and the fever he was afflicted with during his judgement.

 

It seems that Da’Falon even drew the attention of the Dread Wolf, as a mural in one of his holdouts in the Arlathan Forest shows. 

 

_ A carefully replicated illustration of the mural takes up the rest of the page, showing the figure of an elven woman sitting on a bench. An orange cat sits in her lap, with the figures of two small children at her sides. Her left hand is raised, emerald light glowing in the palm. _

 

_ The following page either fell out or was torn out. _

* * *

 

 

  * __An old book in the University library, titled “At the Side of History: From Andraste’s Mabari Onward”, by Professor Johanna Kenrick__



 

  
  



	16. An Unusual Cough (Solas+Fen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform inspired by a three-week long illness I am not amused by.
> 
> Solas frets over Fen'lath during her illness.

On day five of the cough, Solas put his foot down as the one tasked with her healthcare.

 

Even as the biting chill receded to the relative warmth of the early spring Orlesian heartlands at the base of the Frostbacks, it changed from the occasional hack to a deep, barking convulsion that nearly threw her from Stormhart’s saddle. At his insistence, Fen’lath resigned herself to riding in front of Solas on Elgar’assan, held safely in his arms as they traveled back to Skyhold from the Emprise. Every time her body shook with the force of her coughing, his lips pinched and the groove between his brows deepened. 

 

“I’ll be fine, vhenan, I just need to sleep in my own bed for a night or two.” Her voice was husky from the congestion as she attempted to assist in setting up the tent for the night. Scout Harding and a few of the other scouts finally waved her off to sit by the fire. 

 

Solas wanted to agree, say that was the truth, but he couldn’t. Rest wasn’t the only thing she needed. It was the Anchor reacting to the magically-enhanced cold of the Emprise, and the unholy amounts of red lyrium that had been growing there. The magical energies of Skyhold would certainly help, but he needed his books and the herb garden to help purge the illness from her. It was too dangerous to use magic for this. “Even so, I would not have you exert yourself at all, as doing so will only extend the illness.”

 

“You worry too--” Fen cut off on another racking cough, grimacing as tired muscles in her sides pulled with each burst.

 

The disapproving frown grew deeper.

 

“Fine, you win.” She slumped over, putting her head in her hands. “Do you have a clean handkerchief?”

 

“Several.” He stood up and went over to the pile of saddlebags, digging in his own and pulling out the hankies. He stood over Fen and placed one into the hand she held out, then sat down next to her with the others in his lap. Sitting up, she blew several times with long, loud honks. 

 

“Ugh. I can’t wait for this to be gone.” She grabbed one of the clean kerchiefs and wrapped the used one in it, then handed them over to the scout that dashed over to take scraps of fabric to be washed. 

 

“What herbs does she need, Solas? I talked to Harding and the Requisitions Officer, they might be able to do something for her.” Bull was holding up a tent one-handed to allow the scouts helping him to thread the poles through the fabric.

 

“What Fen’lath really needs is fresh Prophet’s Laurel and Royal Elfroot to make a salve for her chest,” Solas mused, “Barring that, Amrita Vein roots soaked in boiling water would make do, for a steam inhalation.”

 

Bull grunted, “Damn, hard herbs to get even when you aren’t about to go up the ass-end of the Frostbacks. Would Prophet’s Laurel and regular elfroot work?”

 

“It is not as efficacious as Royal Elfroot, as it lacks the several of the medicinal compounds that are in Royal, but it will do until we get to Skyhold and the gardens.”

 

“I’m pretty sure Boss has a few stalks of Prophet’s Laurel from outside Suledin, lemme check.”

 

Solas grimaced. Prophet’s Laurel grown in the middle of the red lyrium riddled hellhole could go either way, but if it was the only thing available... Another cough from Fen broke into his musings. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she had unhealthy undertone to her normally ruddy, dusky skin. 

 

She let out a pitiful sniffle, and attempted to smell the stew over the fire. “I miss being able to taste things. And breathe.”

 

“Soon we will be back at Skyhold, vhenan, and I will be able to tend to you properly. Are you hungry?”

 

Fen gave him a weak grin, “Not really. Very tired. Just wait til you catch this from me, and then I have to play nursemaid.”

 

With a direct look, Solas took a kettle from its place next to the stew-pot, then poured it into a finger-bowl that had a small amount of cold water. He dipped the pads of his fingers in, testing the temperature, then pulled a sliver of soap out of the pouch at his waist. After sudsing and rinsing his hands, he shoved the bowl at her. 

 

“Wash your hands, it will help prevent others from getting it.”

 

He had to have a way to explain why only Fen, with the Anchor in her palm, was afflicted by the cough. She shot him a glare.

 

“I know to wash my hands.”

 

“Then do so.”

 

As she sudsed up and rinsed, Solas tasted the stew. Druffalo, root vegetables, some crunchy stalks he didn’t recognize, onions, and garlic. Spooning out a small bowl, he asked Fen, “I know you have no appetite, but eat as much as you can. Lack of food will only hurt.”

 

She was nodding over the half-empty bowl by the time Bull approached Solas. “Got the Prophet’s Laurel.”

He took the stalks from Iron Bull with a nod. “Thank you, Iron Bull. I would suggest you and Dorian maintain minimal contact with Fen until we get to Skyhold.”

 

Bull’s eyebrow rose, “That bad?”

 

“Preventative measure.”

 

“Gotcha. By the way, Solas, you might want to put Boss to bed.”

 

He looked over at Fen, who was wavering in place. Solas caught the bowl from her fingers and set it aside. She only made a weak groaning noise at him as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to their tent. The Inquisition had been in place long enough that they had cots to sleep on instead of bedrolls on the hard ground. He helped Fen change from her riding clothes to a sleep shirt and leggings, then tucked her into their cot while he removed his tunic and changed into fresh leggings. 

 

She was dead asleep as he slid in next to her, tiny, honking snores escaping due to the congestion. He pillowed her head on his shoulder, guilt making his heart clench as she slid the Marked hand to rest on his chest. She wouldn’t be this ill if the Anchor hadn’t made her vulnerable. He had to make her well again, to make up for what his magic continued to do to her. 

 


	17. The Long Road (Fenris + Marian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance and Love Interest Challenge Prompt:
> 
> Fenris: “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly, at your side.”
> 
> After confronting Danarius, Fenris and Marian finally talk about the elephant in the room.

“Perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads. Do you?” Fenris watched Marian as he spoke. He had to be fooling himself, she wouldn’t have waited for him, not for this long… would she?

 

She smiled gently, her springtime eyes lighting up as she spoke, “Wherever it leads, I hope it means we’ll stay together.”

 

Fenris felt the words send sparks through his entire body. She still wanted him. She still wanted to be with him. He watched her as he mentioned the night, that night. The wariness was there, as it had been for the past three years, and he ached. It was not all mended. 

 

“I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me-- I deserved no less,”  _ I felt like I didn’t deserve anything good from you _ , Fenris thought. “But it isn’t better. That night…”

 

He drew a deep breath, stomach gone to butterflies and his heart pounding in his chest.

 

“I remember your touch as if it were yesterday.”

 

Tears filled her eyes, she knew what it meant for him to remember that. 

 

“I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now.”

 

Marian bit her lip, stifling a sob. Fenris reached out, pausing before touching her cheek to carefully wipe away a tear that had escaped to run down the smooth skin. She let out a shuddering breath, leaning into his touch before piercing him with a look.

 

“I need to understand why you left, Fenris.” 

 

There was the specter of Leandra. The accusation that Fenris had left Marian for not fitting Leandra’s vision of feminine was galling, and some of the anger directed toward a woman three years dead came out in his voice.

 

“I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain, the memories it brought up…” He swallowed, even now the memories of Danarius’s abuses sent chills down his arms, “It was too much. I was a coward.”

 

As relief crossed Marian’s face, he dropped his hand and thought, _ I couldn’t tell you that I didn’t deserve any kindness from you, that I soiled you with my presence. _

 

“If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

  
  


“What would you have said?” 

 

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.” 

 

Every time he prepared himself to run, she was there with her smiles, her wit, the unending and undeserved kindness and understanding. The agony of the lyrium brands was nothing compared to a life without Marian Hawke cracking poor jokes and falling up or down stairs into his arms.

 

Fenris could hear the tears of joy she was holding back as she quipped, “Oh, I don’t know. This might be fun to hold over you a while longer.”

 

He shook his head and chuckled. Maddening woman. “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

 

Marian stood and looped her arms around his neck, leaning her forehead gently against his. He pulled her closer, kissing her properly for the first time in three years. The small pecks on the cheek and quick brushes of lips that they had shared were nothing compared to the feeling of breathing her in. Her pulse fluttered against the fingers he slid over her neck and into her hair. 

  
  


“Come home with me.” She breathed it against his lips in between kisses.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Stay the night?”

 

“Most definitely.”

 

“Live with me?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“At least clean up this pile in the meantime?”

 

Fenris pulled away and fixed her with a mock-stern look. “What’s wrong with my housekeeping?”

 

“There are  _ bodies _ in your entryway still! It’s been six years!”

 

“I needed an audience for my dancing.”

 

Marian burst out laughing, “Are you actually making a joke?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 


	18. Waking Dream (Solas + Fen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance and Love Interest Challenge Prompt:
> 
> Solas: Dreams and moonlight, the feeling of the fade, contemplation and desire.
> 
> Late night contemplations at Halamshiral.

Solas looked up at the moons, unable to sleep, while Fen’lath lay next to him, swathed in dreams and moonlight. Their time in Halamshiral had seen his network in Orlais expand, and even better, he had wrenched the Eluvians from Briala’s grip. All but one, to which he had not yet figured out the key. 

 

Yet that was not what kept him awake. 

 

He rolled onto his side, pulling Fen to his chest and burying his nose in her hair. Solas reveled in the feel of her in his arms, the warmth radiating from her, the soft sounds of her breathing proving she was very much alive. 

 

She stirred a little, “Mmm, s’it time to go?”

 

“No,  _ vhenan _ . Go back to sleep.”

 

Fen lifted an arm, scrubbing at her face, murmuring, “Not going back to sleep unless you are, too. S’a long day tomorrow.”

 

“Not for us. I am to ride with you in the carriage, remember?”

 

A Fade-green eye cracked open and shot an annoyed glare at him. “I don’t see why I have to ride in a carriage. I’m not some wilting Orlesian flower.”

 

“You were poisoned, _ma’theneras_ , and have not yet recovered all of your strength. We cannot risk you falling off of Stormhart and setting your recovery back.”

 

Solas smiled as Fen let out a disgusted noise that the Lady Seeker would be proud of.

 

“Fine. I’ll just annoy you by asking every question I can think of.”

 

He chuckled, “When have I ever been annoyed by your questions?”

 

“Well, never.” She made another disgusted noise, and squished her face into the pillow before snuggling closer against him. Her voice went soft, “I’m glad we’re leaving, though. All the sneaking around and pretending that I actually like the Orlesians and their awful Game…”

 

“I know,  _ vhenan _ .”

 

Something in his voice must have tipped her off, as she rolled over and searched his face. “Hey, are you all right?”

 

“We almost lost you.  _ I _ almost lost you. Without you and the Anchor, this world would be lost, as would I. Losing you would....”

 

As he had on a different balcony, the thought of losing Fen overwhelming him again, Solas pulled her to him and kissed her desperately. If Leliana’s agents hadn’t gotten wind of the plot first… If his agent hadn’t signaled him to alert him that Fen had been poisoned by the hairpin instead of with wine…

 

His world would have collapsed in an instant, and the nobles would have burned, Inquisition be damned. 

 

“ _ Vhenan _ , it’s all right. I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.” Fen pulled back and held his face in her hands. “I’m here, I’m alive. Tomorrow we’re going back home, and with the help of Celene’s army, we’re going to stop Corypheus. Together.”

 

Tears he didn’t dare shed burned behind his eyes. The determination written on her face and absolute belief in their victory was a beautiful thing. Even the Fade, with all its wonders and beauty, could not compare to the woman in his arms. 

 

He contemplated her face in the moonlight, long enough that she ran her thumbs on his cheekbones and asked shyly, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“I have said before that you have a rare and marvelous spirit. I am counting my blessings that our paths were brought together, because my world would be much darker without you.”

 

“I don’t know what I would do, or would have done, if I didn’t have you.” She tilted her head up to his, brushed her lips with his own. He felt her heartbeat speed up against his chest. 

 

They had indulged their desire for each other before she fell asleep, yet he could feel it rising once again, hot as flame. 

 

He could afford a little more time with his waking dream before sleep and the Fade claimed him, perhaps. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	19. What's in a Name? (Solas+Fen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform prompt
> 
> The first face-to-face meeting between Solas and Fen'lath.

Solas dodged the shades chasing him as Varric loaded Bianca with more quarrels. The rifts were getting worse, and vomiting stronger demons with each flex of the Breach. They had joined up with a squad of four soldiers when he and the dwarf had approached the first rift, which they were assigned to help keep clear of demons. 

 

Every time a demon belched out of the rift, he winced. Guilt for what that Tevinter madman had done, and horror at the fate of innocent spirits caught in a torrent they couldn’t fight tore through him.

 

Two soldiers had fallen to the shades thus far, and the other two were not reacting as quickly as they had before. Blood spattered onto snow, and one of them stumbled back from the shade attacking him. Solas cast a barrier over the soldier quickly before whipping lightning at the shades hot on his heels, and slashing at one with his staff blade. His pulse pounded in his ears.  _ They are too strong, the soldiers will not survive. The shadows have no real defense against them. _

 

One of the shades dissolved with a wailing shriek as Varric’s quarrels thwacked through it. Solas looked away from his pursuers as he felt his barrier fall. The soldier threatened the shade with his axe, and took a clumsy swing, sweat and blood running into his eyes and obscuring his vision. The demon dodged the axe and lifted dessicated, clawed hands in the air to strike the helpless soldier. 

 

Solas gathered his mana to cast another barrier, despite knowing in his gut it would come too late. Both he and the soldier stumbled back when a giant fireball smacked the shade head-on with a loud  _ fwoosh. _ As it dissolved into ash and Fade, he spotted the mage who had thrown the fireball. The vessel for the Anchor was running towards their group, the Lady Seeker only a few paces behind. She gathered mana to her, and a shock of lightning protected the soldier from another shade as he swiped at his eyes to clear them. 

 

He turned back to his shades, confident that the soldiers were as safe as could be expected now. Solas dispatched one with his staff blade, and while the Seeker, vessel, and Varric were distracted with the ones attacking their people, sent the last of his into the Fade with a Veilstrike. As the last of the shades fell, he felt the ripples of Fade radiating out from the rift. If they didn’t do something quickly, more demons would come through, and the two soldiers the Lady Seeker was sending off were too injured to help them further. The four of them might or might not be able to hold off whatever was pressing against the rift from the other side. At his back, Solas felt a tickle as the Anchor reached for the rift. 

 

_ Maybe… He had theorized that it might work, and now was as good a time as any to test his theory... _

 

Grabbing the elven woman by the wrist, he shouted over the crackling of the rift, “Quickly, before more come through.”

 

He glanced at her delicate little hand, and the slash of green across the palm,  _ Please, let this work. _

 

Raising her hand to the rift, threads of Fade whipped out, drawn to the Anchor like iron shavings to a lodestone. Solas restrained a shout of triumph as they wove the edges of the rift together, and, as she yanked her hand out of his grasp and away from the tear, the rift imploded out of existence with a crack.  

 

She turned wide eyes as green as the Fade itself to him, flexing her hand around the Anchor, “What did you do?”

 

“ _ I _ did nothing. The credit is yours.” 

 

“At least this is good for something.” She shook her hand, a small grimace crossing her face. 

 

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand.” Lady Cassandra had already heard him tell Sister Leliana that he believed the two were connected, it was safe to say. “I theorized the Mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake-- and it seems I was correct.”

 

Even now, the need to maintain the appearance of an apostate hedge mage won out over his delight in his theory proving to be correct, keeping him calm. 

 

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.” Cassandra sounded like she didn’t dare hope it was so. Her tone was normally certain and sure, the strength of her emotions unusual when compared to most of the shadows he had encountered. 

 

“Possibly. It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”  _ And undoing whatever vile magic that magister unleashed.  _

 

The woman paled, and glanced down at her hand again. 

 

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” 

 

The nonchalance of Varric’s tone belied the desperation of the situation had the Anchor not been able to seal the rift. His sense of humor was entertaining, if a little grating at times. The Child of the Stone had dubbed him ‘Chuckles’, much to his chagrin. 

 

“Varric Tethras: Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” 

 

Varric’s wink at Cassandra was answered with a grimace and a gutteral noise in her throat. The bemused elven woman looked the dwarf up and down, then asked, “Are you with the Chantry, or...?”

 

Solas couldn’t help himself, laughing at the question and snorting a little at the end, an embarrassing habit he’d hoped he was over, but apparently not. 

 

“Was that a serious question?”

 

She looked over at him, something sparking in her eyes. Interest, perhaps? The corner of her full mouth quirked up in a little grin.

 

After listening to Cassandra and Varric squabble like an old married couple for a few minutes, Solas introduced himself to the elven woman, and they grimaced in unison as Cassandra referred to the both of them as apostates. A twinkle of merriment crossed her face and she tilted her face away from the Seeker to roll her eyes. He had to stop himself from grinning at her. She was a shadow, as Varric and Cassandra were, but a shadow with more character and life than he had seen in a long time, more like one of the  _ elvhen _ . 

 

She was curious, too, asking questions that allowed him to reveal as much as he could without risking himself. As they departed for the forward camp, Solas removed his canteen from its place on the pack slung across his back, offering it to her. As she carried the Anchor, and was proving to be both useful and friendlier than most Dalish, it wouldn’t hurt to reciprocate for now. 

 

“Here, I imagine the Lady Seeker and Sister would not have given you time to refresh yourself before you were brought out here.”

 

“No, they didn’t.” She grimaced again, eyeing the Seeker. 

 

She took the canteen from him and took a few quick gulps from it, then handed it back to him delicately.

 

“It seems we forgot to ask your name, madame, while introducing ourselves. I see you are Dalish, what clan are you from?” Solas took a gulp from the canteen himself.

 

“Oh, you’re right! I’m from Clan Lavellan, and my name is Fen’lath, you can--” She cut off to stare at Solas as he choked on the water he was drinking, shooting it out of his nose and coughing.

 

Varric and Cassandra turned back to them with confused looks, their sniping silenced in the face of Solas spluttering water all over. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Elvhen is contextual, wandering, and depends greatly on pronunciation, the Dalish believe the pronunciation of Fen's name makes it mean 'Beloved of the Wolf' in a filial sense.
> 
> Solas is spluttering because the pronunciation makes it very heavily romantic. Foreshadowing! >:D


	20. The Path That Leads to Victory (Gwyn + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Scenes inspired by "Make a Man Out of You" from Mulan.
> 
> Gwyn needs to train now that she has the knowledge of the Arcane Warriors.

“Alright. So we know you’ve got the knowledge of the Arcane Warriors from that… whatever that was, but that’s not all you need.” Alistair swung his practice sword with the skill and strength gained from years of practice. He flipped the wooden blade and handed it to Gwyneth. “So, let’s get down to business. To defeat the darkspawn, I need to see what you can do.”

 

The muscle memory given to her by the spirit in the phylactery took over, and she started moving through the forms, letting her body take over and do what felt right. Within minutes, she was red-faced, panting, and her arms were shaky from the weight of the practice sword. How could she use both a sword and a shield in robes, let alone plate, if she got winded this quickly?

 

Alistair gave her a sympathetic look from the log he was sitting on, cleaning the plates of his armor. “Right, yes. Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. You don’t have the physical strength and endurance to match what you know in your head and muscles.”

 

“What can we do?” Gwyn panted.

 

Alistair leaned back on his hands, “You’re going to start wearing plate every day, first of all.”

 

She groaned.

 

“I know, but it’ll help you build up your stamina. We’ll also practice your swordwork every night at camp to get your arm muscles used to it. If we’re in combat, I’d prefer you stay back and cast spells until you’re able to take Sten down.”

 

“Why  _ Sten _ ?”

 

“He’s been training the longest out of the three of us, and survived fighting darkspawn without being a Grey Warden.”

 

“Fine.” Gwyn huffed some straggling hairs out of her face.

 

“Right then, let’s get you strapped into your armor, make sure it fits.”

 

She let out another groan, sitting down and flopping back into the grass.

 

Alistair laughed, “If plate feels like too much right now, I’m sure my old splintmail can be rigged and strapped to fit you.”

 

Sitting up on her elbows, Gwyn shot him a disbelieving eyebrow. “You have a good foot and at  _ least  _ fifty pounds on me.”

 

“I am a  _ growing boy _ ,” he shot back with a cheeky grin, then reached behind the log and pulled his helmet off the pile of dirty armor. He stood up and thunked it down on her head.

 

Gwyn let out a yelp as it bent her ears and the eye slits landed on her cheekbones, blinding her. She took a blind swing with the practice blade and shouted “Ha-HA!” when she got an answering yelp from it connecting with his shin.

* * *

Sten circled Gwyn, looking for an opening. Her arm was trembling from the strain of holding her shield up. She was on the verge of beating her best time sparring with the Qunari so far, and the need to prove herself was keeping her on her feet instead of crumpling to the ground and whimpering.

 

She was doing well, catching Sten’s bone-crushing blows on the shield, and using her lower center of gravity to duck in and slash, before moving back into a defensive stance. Sten was using the opportunity to see where he was leaving himself open, rubbing a pigment powder over the blade of the training sword. Every hit left a little smear on his padded under-armor. He currently had four little red slashes on the armor, and she felt a small surge of pride that at least two would have been a disarming strike, one would have been fatal.

 

Gwyn knew she was leaving herself open due to not having the endurance to hold her shield up because of the aches running up and down her side. If Wynne wasn’t with them, she knew there would be a giant bruise running from under her arm to her hip from Sten’s strikes. 

 

Sten only pulled his swings enough to ensure that the petite elf wouldn’t be severely injured, and every time a blow connected, he would growl out, “ _ Vashedan _ , our enemies won’t go as easy on you!”

* * *

If Gwyn could sweat in the cold air of the Frostbacks, she would. Two days until they reached Orzammar’s gates, she reminded herself as the chill prickled against her skin while Alistair, fully clad in his plate, waited for her attack.

 

Her own armor was Ironbark, lighter than his plate and perfect for her. It allowed her to dance around in the quick, slashing forms that the memories had taught. Gwyn was proud, though. She no longer felt like her lungs were going to explode from lack of air while she fought, even if she wore plate. In addition, her arms, while still relatively spindly, were getting some fine musculature. 

 

Spellweaver sang in her grip, the gentle hum resonating with her magic. Darting forward, Gwyn used the blade to rip Alistair’s sword from his own grasp. Sten grunted from the sidelines in approval.

 

Alistair grinned, straightening, “Good move, Gwynnie! I’m prou--OOF!”

 

Her buckler drove the air from his lungs as she lunged in, feeling the impact vibrate up her arm and through her shoulder. Alistair flew back, rolling ass over teakettle. Gwyn moved to stand over him, panting lightly. 

 

“Didn’t you tell me repeatedly not to drop my guard until I was sure  _ every  _ enemy had been taken care of?”

 

He rolled over onto his back with a wheeze, “My mistake. Good one.”

* * *

Sten cornered Gwyn as Alistair sat on the sideline, Oghren next to him drinking a truly foul-smelling ale.  Spellweaver came up to block the blow, and she felt a bit queasy seeing the shimmering outline of her arm. Being half-in and half-out of the Fade took some getting used to. 

 

Alistair had his eyes locked on them. Sten was slowing down, his attacks coming further apart, and he was making mistakes. There was a small frisson of excitement building in Gwyn’s stomach as she managed a lunging strike that opened up her chance to dance behind Sten, and out of the corner of their little sparring ring. He grunted, swinging around to face her. 

 

Asala sang through the air, and Gwyn turned the strike with her shield. Sten’s knee turned with the blow. Slashing out, she hit the back, and the giant man fell to his knee for the first time in all of their sparring matches, grunting and panting. Oghren bellowed, “You got ‘im, Warden!”

 

Alistair jumped up with a shout of joy, arms in the air.

 

Gwyn held her hand out to help Sten stand. “Well fought, Sten.”

 

“Well fought,  _ kadan. _ ”

 

Alistair caught her around the waist and lifted her up, armor and all. “The Archdemon doesn’t stand a  _ chance  _ against you after this!”

 

Gwyn laughed out loud, even as a knot of anxious fear formed in her stomach at the thought of facing the beast whose song became stronger every day. 

  
  
  



	21. Codex Entry: FIGHT! (Marian + Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Codex Entry: Your OC gets dragged into a bar fight
> 
> Let's face it, there's no way Marian would have to be *dragged* into a bar fight.

[ _ The notebook opens to this page when you pick it up. The Viscount of Kirkwall’s handwriting is distinctive, and it appears to be a scene that he left out of ‘The Tale of the Champion’. _ ]

 

She sat back in her chair, spring-green eyes dancing with mirth as she set the mug of ale down. “So the thief comes stumbling out of the wardrobe, and starts going on about how he’d been ‘seduced by crime’ and whatnot, right? I tell him to begone, and while he’s giving me a fresh monologue about sparing him, Valor lifts his leg and pisses all over him!”

 

The table exploded with laughter, while Fenris draped his arm over Marian’s shoulder. 

 

“Remind me to give the dog extra scratches the next time I see him.” The elf lifted a claw-gauntleted hand, “He seems to enjoy that I can get all the itchy places he can’t reach with these.”

 

“Oh, surely you had to clean up after that?” Merrill giggled, her plum wine gone to her head.

 

“Of course, but I will never forget the look on his face! Or the sound of his shoes squishing with dog pee as he ran.” 

 

They were still in fits over Hawke’s story when they hear Norah’s voice rise above the din, “Hey, keep yer hands to yerself!”

 

Heads turned, and took in a massive, drunken sailor attempting to snatch a tankard from the waitress’s tray while holding her around the waist.

 

“C’mon, girlie, if you’re not gonna give me a kiss, at least let me have an ale!”

 

Tearing herself out of his grip, without spilling a drop, Norah snarled, “You’ll have to pay fer it if ya want another. And ya don’t look like you have the coin.”

 

“I can give you a kiss.” He leered at her. 

 

Marian tensed and reached for her halberd, leaned against the wall next to the back of her chair. Varric reached for Bianca, Sebastian for his bow, and Fenris leaned forward, surreptitiously pulling his sword closer.

 

Setting down her tray next to Corff on the bar, her elbows wide to enforce her personal space, Norah turned back to the sailor. “I don’t care if ya do have the coin to pay, ye’re done. Get yer drunk arse out of here.”

 

A table of sailors stood up, unsteady and eyes unfocused, “You trying to kick out our friend, wench?”

 

“There’s no trying,” Norah sniffed, “I  _ am _ kicking him out.”

 

The first sailor, snarling at having his advances and money rejected publicly, took a swing at Norah. Marian sprang up, then let out a whoop as the waitress dodged out of the way and gave the sailor a haymaker to the jaw, dropping him. She rounded on the other sailors, “Ya know what this means, lads?” The waitress took a minute to wipe her hands on the filthy cloth at her waist.

 

“FIGHT!” The bellow echoed through the Hanged Man.

 

Throwing her halberd back in place, Marian dove into the seething mass of sailors that were being jumped by the regular patrons of the tavern. She heard Fenris yell her name in a despairing tone from behind her. One sailor got a good punch across her chin, which she repaid with a knee to the gut. It had been far too long since she had been in a good bar brawl. 

 

Her knuckles cracked against a squat sailor’s cheek, busting them open. He snarled, her blood smeared across his face. A few more blows exchanged, Marian dropped him to the floor when he grappled her and she slammed her forehead into his nose. Looking around, she saw Sebastian holding off a drunk patron who was attempting to get at Merrill, confused by the fray. Fenris was wading his way through the writhing mass to try and drag her out.  

 

As another of the offending group was laid out on the floor, the door of the tavern slammed open and Donnic threw himself in ahead of a squad of guards, yelling and shouting. 

 

Popping out of the tangle of bodies, Fenris lifting her by the waist to carry her back to their table, Marian chirped, “Hello, Donnic! Fancy a hand of cards?” She paused.“Don’t tell Aveline, will you? I still owe a fine after the last time!”


	22. On the Road (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A well worn road, a broken sign, a map, a flower, a decision.
> 
> Heading west on the search for a cure for the Taint, Gwyneth and her team make a stop in the Anderfels.

Gwyneth knew that many pilgrims made their way to the Anderfels to see the Lady in Merdaine, carving the well-worn path into the Blighted landscape, but given the blistering temperature, she couldn’t help but wonder if they still thought it was worth it when they got there. Her cheeks were red from the heat, and her body dripped with sweat, even in the loose white robes they had purchased in Nessum. She knew she was going to be even more sunburned than Velanna or Nate. Sigrun and Oghren had so far avoided the painful redness, but as they traversed through the arid country, it was likely they would burn as well. Their poor pack bronto was huffing and grunting in discomfort too, poor thing. None of them were built for the heat of the Anderfels.

 

Gwyn had never thought she would long for Kinloch Hold, and despite the dank, mildewed smell it would include, she wished for the cool stone walls to lean against. At this point, she would take the worst Fereldan blizzard she could remember to cool off.

 

“Nate, do you have the map?” Her voice was rusty from the lack of moisture. 

 

“Yep.” Just as rusty-sounding, Nate waved the parchment roll in her general direction. “We should be coming up on the road to Hossburg soon.”

 

Gwyn nodded as she consulted it, tracing the line of their route with a finger. “Hossburg, then up the Lattenfluss to Nordbotten. When we’re there, we get the supplies or join a Green Man caravan to Laysh.”

 

“Are you sure about this, Gwyn?” Sigrun sounded exhausted. 

 

“I can say, with one-hundred percent certainty, that I have no idea what I’m doing right now.” The joke fell flat. Gwyn felt herself droop. “Sorry.”

 

“S’all good, Warden.” For some reason, Oghren had never gotten comfortable calling Gwyn by her name. “Now that the sodding Calling’s died down, I think we’re all feeling the effects of ignoring it for so long.”

 

Sigrun nodded. 

 

“So it  _ was _ a false Calling,” Gwyn breathed out. “As soon as we get to the road for Hossburg, we’re sending a raven to Alistair.”

 

Velanna muttered, “I don’t see why we’re here.  _ You _ don’t have to worry about the Calling anymore.”

 

Gwyn whirled on her.

 

“Because I  _ care _ , Velanna. We’ve had our differences-” Velanna snorted as Gwyn continued. “But I don’t want any of you to have to go to your Calling. I don’t want anyone to have to go to a Calling. I want my little boy to have his father for as long as possible, for Ferelden to have her King for as long as possible. Alistair supports elves and mages, and has preserved the freedom of the Dalish. We need him to stay on the throne until Moira is old enough to rule.  _ All  _ of us.”

 

Turning back with  a swirl of white robes, Gwyn marched forward. 

 

“Great job, Vel. Perfect. You’ve pissed her off,” Nate growled. Velanna let out another huff. 

 

They continued walking in silence, until, in the distance, a small outpost came into view, and the road branched. A broken, battered sign hanging off the post in front of the cluster of buildings would have pointed the way to Hossburg if it had been nailed back in place. In the middle of the huddle, Anders children chased each other, armed with tiny wooden swords or spears and shields. They shrieked as an older teenager dove among them, dressed like an ogre, and then fell upon her with delight.

 

_ Even when they have a chance to be children, they have to train to fight darkspawn. _ Gwyn felt her heart clench, and turned towards the largest building. A careworn, hard-faced woman came out. 

 

“Wardens.” Nate had left the front if his robe undone to show the Warden garb underneath. 

 

“Ma’am. We’re headed to Nordbotten, and we need to refill our water skins, water our bronto, and buy more rations. Are you able to supply us, or is there another outpost where we might purchase goods?”   
  


“Follow me.” She gestured for them to proceed around the side of the building. Leading them past a parched, wilting garden, she pointed to a well. “Fill up. No charge unless we fill your skins for you. Supplies, I’ll need to ask the quartermaster.”

 

Turning abruptly, she walked back to the building. Nate and Oghren started filling water skins while Sigrun coaxed the bronto to drink from a small trough. Feeling a bit useless, Gwyn wandered over to the garden. The Anders soil was poor, yet someone had planted what should have been a rosebush. It was more of a bramble, and proving that life could find a way to thrive, there were a few tenacious green leaves, and one drooping bloom. 

 

She reached out, touching the silky petals, and remembered another rose. It seemed like Ages ago, instead of less than a decade. Velanna came up behind her. 

 

“How can anyone, even a shem, live like this? The People don’t have a presence here because of the devastation.”

 

“People do what they must to survive.” Gwyn murmured. 

 

Velanna was prickly on the best of days, but she cared, deep down. Moving around Gwyn, she sat in a bare patch of cracked earth. Gwyn watched, fascinated, as the other mage, versed in the magic of the Dalish, reached deep into the earth below her. 

 

She had used Replenishment in battle before, but this was a use Gwyn had never seen. The soil, so pale and parched before, started to darken, and the plants started to perk up. 

 

Standing and dusting the seat of her robe, Velanna spoke. “Before we left, I read some of the books you had. This area had volcanic activity Ages before the First Blight. I just made sure the ash is more accessible to the plants. It’s good for them.”

 

Gwyn smiled, “Thank you, Velanna.”

 

“It’s what Seranni would have done.”

 

Nodding at the other elf, she turned back to Nate, Oghren, and Sigrun. The Anders woman came back, a sack in hand. “Here’s what we have, Wardens. Pay now or send a bill to Weisshaupt in your name?”

 

She froze. The First Warden didn’t know they were in the Anderfels. They had no intention of letting Weisshaupt know they were in the country, either. Ever since both Gwyn and Alistair had both survived the Fifth Blight, they had been under much closer scrutiny than either of them were comfortable with. Only Zevran and Darrian’s work rooting out spies had kept them from closer inspection. 

 

Gwyn chewed her lip, glad she had taken the precaution of stating they were headed directly for Nordbotten instead of Hossburg first. Their gold was running low, though. Taking a deep breath, she decided that discretion was more important. 

 

“We’ll pay now.” 

 

The price the woman gave them was reasonable, and less than expected. “That seems like less than it should be.”

 

She shrugged, “The Wardens have served the Anderfels for generations, we give back how we can.”

 

“I can’t take your supplies from you without paying a fair price. I insist.”

 

The woman cracked the smallest of smiles. “You’re a good one, Warden. Five more gold, then.”

 

As they went back to the road, Gwyn watched the children again for a moment. As much as for Ferelden, she was doing this for them, and the children who were, without knowing, on the path to becoming a Grey Warden some day. And everyone. 

 


	23. Cycles of Time (Marian + Fenris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The moment Hawke receives the letter from Varic asking them to come to Skyhold.
> 
> Just when it seems Marian can stay in the shadows, she receives a letter that destroys all her plans.

It felt odd, sitting this one out.

 

Fleeing from the base of the Frostbacks in their aborted attempt to find and perhaps rescue Varric, after seeing the horrendous tear in the sky, Marian and Fenris had made for Starkhaven without stopping. Maureva was with them, and their baby’s safety overrode any instinct  to stay and fight the demons that vomited out of the rifts to attack people.

 

Once their precious girl was safe in Starkhaven, Marian grew restless with the itch to go back and help, until Fenris had pointed out that this wasn’t her fight. She was so used to being in the thick of everything, even with the necessity of laying low, that she felt like she had to fling herself in with abandon.

 

He had a point though. They didn’t have to solve this one, their duty lay in staying safe in their holding with their daughter. Varric had written her about the so-called Herald of Andraste. The Dalish elf woman had things firmly in hand, and Marian lacked the mark in her palm that would truly make a difference. Besides, Sister Leliana and that Seeker were with the fledgeling Inquisition, and she needed to stay safely away from them. Maker only knew what Knight-Commander Cullen had told them about her.

 

As she sat with her daughter in her lap, a children’s book about a fantastical cat spread open so she could guide Maureva’s finger under the word ‘cat’ every time it came up in the story, she tried to keep up a facade of calm. Her stomach twisted at the lack of news. Everyone had heard about the fall of Haven, and there had been no word from Varric since. Had she doomed one of her best friends to die by staying here with her daughter and husband?

 

Marian looked up with a tight smile when Fenris came in. His eyes lit up, taking in Maureva bouncing in her lap and yelling, “Cat!”

 

He swung the little girl into the air, growling and kissing her all over her face as she shrieked in delight. After setting Maureva on the ground, Fenris reached into his armor and pulled out a folded packet of parchment.

 

“This arrived for you, Marian, from the dwarf.” 

 

She felt her whole body sag with relief as she reached to take the packet from him. Varric was alive, then, Fenris didn’t let go right away, and Marian gave him a confused look.

  
“Whatever he says, please don’t go.”

 

“I don’t think he needs me, if they survived Haven and the Herald lives, what’s one washed-up Champion from a Marcher city going to do?”

 

“Just--” He ran his hand through his silver-white hair. “I know you. This isn’t your fight, Marian. Please.”

 

She tugged the packet again, and he let go. As she cracked the wax seal and started unfolding the parchment, she said quietly, “I know that, Fenris. I’m happy here with you and Maureva. There’s almost nothing that he could--”

 

* * *

 

Fenris watched Marian’s face go white as she glanced down at Varric’s writing.

 

“Marian?”

 

“Fenris, take Maureva to Orana, please.”

 

“What does the dwarf say?”

 

“Please, just--”

 

“I want to know what he’s written, Marian.”

 

Eyes huge, she looked up at him, “This is my fault.”

 

“You had nothing to do with whatever’s going on down south.”

 

She shook her head, inky, short curls and waves flicking against her cheeks. 

 

“Orana! Please, come take Maureva!” Fenris shouted, not taking his eyes off his wife.

 

He knelt in front of her, watching her eyes flick over the parchment and listening as her breathing sped up.

 

“Marian.”

 

“This is my fault, all my fault,”she gasped out, dropping the papers into her lap and pushing her hands against her mouth to hold in a sob.

 

Fenris snatched the top page, eyes drawn to one name that made a cold shock twist his stomach and radiate out into his limbs.

 

_ Corypheus. _

 

_ Corypheus is alive somehow, Tumbles. Alive with a fucking archdemon, and he killed the Divine. The Inquisitor needs you down here,  _ I _ need you down here, to help us make sense of this whole bloody, Blighted mess. _

 

Looking up from the page, he saw the look in Marian’s eyes, and he knew that she wouldn’t let him go with her this time. Everything in him screamed at the wrongness of it, but Maureva…

 

“I have to go, Fenris. I’m sorry.”


	24. Hunt You Down (Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform Prompt.
> 
> Fen'lath struggles with the whispers from the Well of Sorrows.
> 
> Chapter name and inspiration from 'Hunt You Down' by The Hit House.

Fen’lath landed on her knees in the chamber where Morrigan kept her Eluvian after tumbling out of the mirror. The whispers of the Well filled her mind, a cacophony of voices all saying the same word.  _ Nan _ . Revenge. Vengeance. Or was it Justice?

 

Corypheus had murdered the Well’s Sentinels, despoiled the Temple of Mythal in his quest to become a god. Fen raised a dusty palm to her head, wincing against the sheer force of the noise in her skull. She couldn’t focus on a single thought for more than a moment, but she tried.  There were so many consequences to the situation; Abelas and the few remaining Sentinels should be offered a place at Skyhold, and a chance to help her cut the mad, Blight-riddled magister down. If they could be found again, or if any survived…. The voices rang again, scattering her thoughts once more,  _ nan _ ,  _ nan _ ,  _ nan _ . 

 

“ _ Vhenan _ ?” The gentle touch of Solas’s hand on her shoulder quieted the voices. She looked up at him, saw the pain in his face at the losses of the Temple. 

 

_ He was one of them.  _

 

All the little pieces started to fall into place. His knowledge of the Fade and spirits, his perfect command of  _ Elvhen _ , all that he knew of Arlathan. Solas was one of the ancients, from before the fall. He knew then what had been lost at the Well, felt it more keenly than she did. 

 

_ I hope you find a new name. _

 

Was Solas really his name? Fen searched his stormcloud eyes, wondering if he had taken a new name on waking up in this new era. Worry was replacing the pain on his face as she remained silent. He knelt in front of her, touched her face gently, thumb running over one of Mythal’s branches as it wandered over her cheekbones.

 

“ _ Vhenan _ , please.”

 

“I’m-- sorry, it’s a bit overwhelming.”

 

“I can understand that. You are still yourself?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

 

There was a flash of the anger Solas had displayed when she chose to drink, quickly replaced by concern. “The Well.”

 

“It was a bit loud in there for a moment or two, but the whispers have quieted. I’m still myself.”

 

His eyes closed in relief. Solas stood up, and reached out a hand. Fen took it and pulled herself up to standing. His arms folded around her, and she rested her forehead on his chest. A few whispers fluttered across her consciousness.  _ Fen. Fen! Fen! _

 

_ At least they learned my nickname quickly, _ she thought sardonically. 

 

Her people’s history, and Solas’s own personal history, had been wrecked in the name of a man who saw their pointed ears and thought them lesser. The irony of Corypheus grasping for the Well, while seeing the people who had created it as little more than vermin was not lost on her.

 

When she finished hunting him down and tore him to pieces, it would be a satisfying vengeance.

  
  



	25. Whispers From the Dark (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your OC sees red lyrium for the first time, and the old song is enthralling, drawing them nearer, making them forget about their goal.
> 
> Gwyneth receives a shard of red lyrium from Kirkwall.

The box appeared innocuous, just one of many in the chests sent from Kirkwall. Solona’s cousin Carver had sent it, a ‘gift’ for Satinalia. Zevran and Darrian had inspected the accompanying letter as only the best spymasters in Thedas could, ensuring it had not been opened. The words written on the pages were as dark as the whispers that the box emitted. The letter’s subject didn’t reassure.

 

_ We started receiving this instead of our regular lyrium doses two weeks ago… _

 

_ They don’t realize that this drove BT insane, since he’s been put in a home and V didn’t tell anyone… _

 

_ Most of the others weren’t here when K-C M went insane from this stuff either…  _

 

_ M and V are using their connections to get me regular lyrium, I wouldn’t touch the red with a ten foot pole… _

 

_ The new K-C is growing suspicious… _

 

_ AH and DH are going to get me out of Kirkwall after this is sent off to you, for my safety… _

 

_ Please, please be careful with this, there’s no telling how many lives have already been ruined … _

 

Gwyneth put the letter down next to the box, and rubbed her temple. Even if she started investigating now, she wouldn’t be able to follow through. In less than a month, she would be gathering Nate, Oghren, Velanna, and Sigrun to make their way west. Alistair said the false Calling was getting fainter, like it was moving away from him, but curing him and her friends was still her first priority.

 

Solona stood next to her, brow furrowed as she looked at the carved wood. “What do we do about this, Gwyn?”

 

“I’m not sure. I think we should open this and then make a decision.”

 

“Right. I’ll stay back here and observe, just in case you need healing after. From what I understand from both Marian and Carver, it shouldn’t affect you right away, but there’s no way to know for sure.”

 

“I think that’s a good idea.” Gwyn let out a frustrated huff, “This is one more thing on my plate that I won’t be able to finish before I leave. Will you help your cousins after I’m gone?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Then here goes nothing.” 

 

Gwyn unlocked and opened the box. At first, the tiny shard of glowing red seemed harmless as it sat in the lead-lined container. Tiny little flickers danced in its center, and she slowly reached for it. Solona made a noise in her throat, and Gwyn curled her fingers in to stop herself from picking it up. The backs of her fingers were warm, like the shard of crimson contained a flame within its depths. 

 

As she gazed into the shimmering depths, song, both familiar and strange, began to fill her mind. The notes hummed across her nerves, making her shiver. 

 

The music reminded her of the strongest of the Blightsong she had encountered as a Warden. Yet, if the Blightsong was the soft, high note of a violin, the Song coming from the shard of red lyrium was a cello harmonizing with it. The resonant music vibrated through her, calling to her, singing to her in the sweetest thrilling way. 

 

The room around her faded until the only thing in her world was the flickering crimson dancing to the symphony of the Song. There was no future, no past, just the present. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Gwyn was panicking, trying to tear her eyes away. She needed to do… something… She couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do. 

 

Layered under the echoing melody, there were muffled noises. They became higher and more frequent as Gwyn felt herself falling into the crimson flames of song. Her hands warmed as the light drew closer to her face. She could feel the warmth of it on her lips, and she drew in a deep breath. 

 

A Stonefist hit Gwyn in the chest knocking her backwards and sending her rolling across the floor. She lay on the thick carpet, gasping to catch her breath again. Pale and shaking, Solona stood over her, holding the blade of her staff to Gwyn’s throat. 

 

“Sol-- what--” Gwyn wheezed.

 

The blade lifted away an inch. “It’s been over an hour, Gwyn. You were just staring at the shard, and then your eyes started shimmering red. You… you grabbed the shard, and I started shouting and trying to pull it from you. It looked like you were going to swallow it, and so I--I--”

 

“Thank you, Sol.” 

 

Solona dropped the staff blade away and stepped backwards, sitting heavily in a chair. “What happened?”

 

“I think it’s related to the Blight somehow. It was singing to me, like Blightsong, but not. This is worse, and if the Templars in Kirkwall are using it, Marian and Ser Carver need to know. And if either of them were delayed, they need to get out of there as soon as possible.” She shivered as the notes of the Song began trickling along her body again.  It was harder to block out than ever, the seductive glimmer drew her eyes back to it, an unwilling focus.

 

“Marian’s not in Kirkwall, she’s... somewhere safe. I’m not sure if Carver got out...”

 

Gwyn closed her eyes in relief. “Send a message to Carver as quickly as you can. Their friends need to remove him as soon as possible if he’s still there. Tell the both of them to contact the Wardens in the Free Marches;  they don’t seem to be hearing the Calling and they can take  _ that  _ with them. I can’t… I can’t handle this, obviously.”

 

Solona got up and grabbed the box from the desk. She edged up to the shard on the floor, and set the box on its side, using the tip of the staff blade to knock the glimmering crimson back into it, then slammed the top closed and threw the lock. Gwyn sighed in relief, the sudden silence a blessing.

 

“That thing scares me, Sol.”

 

Sitting down on the floor, Solona took Gwyn’s hand and held it as they both stared at the box, seeing not the wood grain, but the pulsing malevolence within. The women shivered, neither liking the implications. 

  
  



	26. Always on the Edge (of Death!) (Marian + Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Don’t feel bad, I’m usually about to die.”
> 
> If you're not having a near-death experience with Zevran, are you really even friends with him?
> 
> My take on the quest "A Murder of Crows".

“Shit. Shit shit shitshitshit…”

 

_ “Shit!”  _

 

Marian dodged a swipe from one of the Crows, dancing away from his blades and whipping her head around wildly to see who was where.

 

Zevran and Nuncio were locked in combat, blades flashing and clanging against each other. Fenris and Sebastian were working in tandem to cut down the Antivan’s minions. Arrows flew from Sebastian’s bow in rapid-fire succession while her elf cleaved into anyone who got too close to his friend. Merrill had entangled a few in vines, and was lashing another with a thorny vine-whip.

 

The Crow she was dealing with was faster than she was, and had managed to slash her a few times. Marian was thankful she had begun wearing her Champion’s armor. If she were still in her thin old leathers, his blows would have easily torn through. That wouldn’t have ended well - every time the daggers flashed towards her, she could see poison on their razor-edges. The oily substance was smeared in the lacerations the blades left in the heavy leather of her armor. She hoped Zevran could tell her how to clean her armor without accidentally finishing the job.

 

“Marian!”

 

Turning at Fenris’ call, she whirled around a Crow that was charging at her and cracked her staff across the small of his back before sending a Fist of the Maker slamming down. Marian gritted her teeth as she felt an impact across her lesser-armored shoulder, rendering it numb for a moment, but thankfully without the piercing pain that would mean her armor had been damaged. One threat handled, she swung back to the other Crow. There was a flash of fear in his eyes now, she hadn’t used magic when Nuncio first attacked them. 

 

The majority of the Crows were down, with Zevran and Nuncio still locked in combat. Finally, with a quick twist to the side, the Antivan elf drove both blades into the gap between the top of Nuncio’s armor and his collar bones. The man dropped to his knees with a gurgle, and then keeled over just as the last few besides hers were dispatched. 

 

Marian’s Crow went pale, then vanished in a burst of smoke. Zevran’s eyes narrowed, and then he, too, vanished. Both of them re-appeared moments later, announced by a gout of blood fountaining from the Crow’s neck. He let out an airy gasp, then slumped down onto the sand. 

 

“Excellent. Killing my former brothers-in-arms is oddly satisfying,” Zevran said, kneeling down and plucking a pouch from the corpse’s belt before moving back to Nuncio’s body and rifling through it for loot. 

 

“Is that why you killed four assassins, their henchmen, and the Guildmaster? I’d think you’d want to pace yourself. If you keep going at this rate, you won’t have any Crows left to kill in short order,” Marian quipped, plunking down on a boulder to take a breather and drink from her canteen.

 

Zevran threw his head back, letting out a joyous burst of laughter. “I like you, Champion, you have a similar sense of humor as your cousin!”

 

Marian perked up, “You’ve met Solona?”

 

“ _ Si,  _ in Denerim. She is very close with the Lady Chancellor, and they are both quite fond of  _ mi amor, _ Darrian. Solona speaks fondly of you.”

 

She beamed, happy to know that at least some of her remaining family thought well of her. Fenris walked over, holding a fairly large leather pouch. “They had a fair amount of coin,” looking over to Zevran, he asked in an uncomfortable, concerned tone, “Do you require funds for passage back to Ferelden?”

 

“No, but thank you for offering.” Zevran squinted at the sun as it lowered towards the horizon. “We may need to camp here on the coast. Would any of you wish to cuddle? Purely for warmth, of course.”

 

Sebastian turned red bright red and began stuttering. Merrill nodded sagely, “The Coast does get very cold at night. We can share a tent, I don’t mind.” With a wistful expression and a sheen of tears, she said softly, “It reminds me of sleeping in the aravels with the clan.”

 

The flirty expression on Zevran’s face immediately gave way to sadness. “How long have you been away from your clan,  _ amiga _ ?”

 

“Almost six years at this point. I’m sorry,” Merrill swiped at her eyes, “I get awfully homesick for them sometimes.”

 

“No, never apologize, I understand.” Catching Marian’s eye and realizing she was glaring daggers at him, he tilted his head, indicating that he would be in a tent with Merrill for warmth, nothing more.

 

“We should try to make it as far along the coast back to Kirkwall as we can, at least,” Sebastian said, slinging his bow onto his back and gathering up items from the camp that could fetch a fair price in the Low Town market. 

 

As Fenris pulled Marian up from the boulder, she was hit with a momentary wave of dizziness.

  
“Marian?” Dark brows pinched together in concern.

 

“Just a bit dizzy, Fenris. It’s been awhile since I ate last.”

 

Giving her a side-eye, he dug into his supply pouch and shoved a piece of jerky into her hand. “Eat.”

 

“Yes, ser!” She gave him a grin and started gnawing.

 

They shuffled along the sand for a bit, chatting and asking about Zevran’s time during the Blight with King Alistair and the Warden, when Merrill suddenly interrupted, asking, “Oh, Hawke, is that your blood?”

 

“Where?” Marian twisted, not seeing any on her front, and felt another bout of vertigo.

 

“Your shoulder, it’s dripping down the back of your arm!” Sebastian exclaimed. 

 

“I don’t feel anything, that’s odd.” Marian tucked her hand in and lifted her elbow, seeing the streaks of red on her arm. 

 

Zevan grabbed her other arm, “You do not feel anything in that arm?”

 

“No?”

 

“Brasca! How long has it been?” Still holding her arm, he began rummaging in the pouch he’d taken from the slain Crow.

 

“I’m not sure?” The world turned, and Fenris was holding her, inspecting where the blade had broken through the leather of her armor. 

 

“Here, friend, get her to drink this,” Zevran’s voice was echoing, and Fenris growled at him.

 

“If she dies, you’re next,  _ friend. _ ”

 

“Ah, you are welcome to try, but I promise I will not strike to kill.”

 

Marian coughed at the bitter taste of the potion being poured into her mouth. “That’s vile.”

 

“ _ Si, _ but the poison would be worse. I apologize, this happened because you chose to help me.”

 

“Don’t feel bad, I’m usually about to die. Or actively dying. Hell, I’m pretty sure Lady Elegant’s gowns from last season were purchased purely from the money I’ve spent on potions to keep me from slipping the mortal coil, as the bards say,” she said with half-dazed giggle. 

 

“This is  _ not funny _ , Marian!” Fenris snapped.

 

“Ah, if you cannot laugh in Death’s face at least once a month, what are you even doing with your life?”

 

“Living!  Living is the answer, isn’t it, Fenris?” Merrill chirped.

 

He growled in frustration. 


	27. The Children of Fen'Harel (Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visual prompt, a photo of four wolves in snow
> 
> A quiet moment between Fen and Solas in the Emprise.

“ _ Vhenan, _ wake up.”

 

“Hmm?” Fen’lath rolled over in the cot she shared with Solas. 

 

“Wake up and come see.”

 

Fen swiped at her eyes, “Can it wait?”

 

“No, they will be gone if we wait much longer.”

 

“They?” She raised an eyebrow.

 

He smiled, an almost childlike excitement dancing in his eyes. “Come and see.”

 

“Fine.”

 

She rolled out of the cot, shivering at the biting chill of the Emprise. Solas wrapped her feet for her quickly, weaving the spell to keep her feet warm even as the strips of leather encased them. Shrugging the enormous fur coat she’d obtained on over the halla-wool jumper and leggings she’d been sleeping in, Fen followed Solas out of their tent. The air was already starting to lose its bite, the banishment of Imshael and the slaying of the dragons releasing the magic that had kept the area locked in ice.  Still, it was far too cold to be out for too long. Fen pulled the furred hood up to protect her ears and face. 

 

Solas nodded to the guards at the edge of the camp, leading her to the treeline. Placing Fen in front of him, he wrapped his arms around her to help keep her warm and whispered into the sparkling cold night, “Do you see them,  _ vhenan? _ ”

 

“See-oh!” 

 

As she focused, moving shadows became a pack of wolves. The lead wolf was watching them curiously, shifting from paw to paw as its snout lifted to scent the chill air. The other wolves flanked the lead, tilting heads in curiosity. 

 

Solas began speaking in Elvhen, and Fen tilted her head back to him, “Are you speaking to the wolves?”

 

She could hear the smile in his voice as he switched to trade, “Perhaps.”

 

“What are you saying to them?” 

 

“Just reassuring them that we mean no harm, and we will be on our way in short order. We are, after all, in their home territory.”

 

“I never figured you for a dog person.”

 

Solas laughed, “I am fond of them, but the life of a wandering apostate is not conducive to having such companionship. Wandering Templar patrols wouldn’t think twice about putting a sword through a dog to get to their target. I would not risk a dog’s life like that, even for company.”

 

Fen was silent for a moment, then said, “When I was with Lavellan, I was responsible for caring for our Fen’Harel statues and taking the clan coursers along the perimeter to keep the Children of Fen’Harel away from the camp. There was one, that little female named Shinnia you met when we went back home, that loved to walk with me. Keeper disapproved because  _ I _ was the one who was supposed to be focusing on keeping the Dread Wolf at bay, not letting the dog do it. I wish I could have brought her back from Wycome with me.”

 

“Shinnia seemed to like me when we were there. As for the Keeper and their hound, I wonder, did anyone in your clan ever sic the coursers on unwelcome guests? ”

 

“It happened once or twice when I was younger. Usually only after they threatened the clan or Keeper, why do you ask?”

 

“Why do you think the dogs are supposed to keep the Dread Wolf away?”

 

“Because they can sense his presence, I assumed.”

 

“Did no-one ever question that it might have been the act of a hound loyal to its person, and nothing to do with Fen’Harel? I am sure that had I or anyone else had done anything to make you feel threatened while we were in Wycome, Shinnia would have come after me with unbridled aggression, regardless.”

 

Fen was quiet for a moment, watching the wolves that were still eyeing them with wary curiosity. “That makes sense. I am glad of the story, though. Shinnia’s affection for me angered the  _ hah’ren  _ as well, since it seemingly confirmed that I was not an agent of the Dread Wolf. She bit him once when I was younger and he had me cornered while yelling at me.”

 

“Would your Keeper reconsider letting you have Shinnia?”

 

“I doubt it. Skyhold is too far up in the mountains for her to be comfortable. Her fur is far too short, and she wouldn’t be happy being kept in Skyhold all the time, unable to roam with me. I don’t think she’d be happy in a jumper, either.”

 

Solas let out a small, snorting laugh, “She would not be, I agree. It would be fun to see you attempt to put one on her, nonetheless.”

 

“Like one of those poor little lap dogs we saw in Orlais, with their masks and awful looking clothes.”

 

“Yes,” he laughed again. “All of them looked so miserable.”

 

“ _ Vhenan? _ ”

 

“ _ Ma’theneras? _ ” 

 

“When all is said and done, do you think we could get a dog? I’m sure Skywatcher’s people have a breed that could withstand the cold in Skyhold, and the Frostbacks.”

 

“I would like that,  _ ma’theneras _ , if it would make you happy.”

 

“ _ Ma serannas _ .”

 

“I miss having a dog, so it would be just as much for me as for you, no thanks are necessary.”

 

They fell silent. The wolves decided that the two of them were no threat, and continued on silently, the barest crunch of snow marking their passage. Taking Fen’s hand in his, Solas lead her back to camp and their tent. 

 

After sleep claimed them, Solas began to Dream. His heart clenched when, in his travels in the Fade, he came across Fen dreaming of walking through a field by his side, their children and wolf-like dogs running ahead of them. A smile crept across his face. They were on the same page. 


End file.
